Don't Be an Elbow -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

I'm becoming accustomed to a good many things. The sound of oranges falling onto my tent in the middle of the night. 

thump

roll

kerplunk

(I know they're oranges because my tent is under an orange tree. And I see oranges on the ground in the morning. Reasoning at its finest)

The sound of lizards scampering across my tent int he middle of the night. 

skitter

pitter

whoosh

(I don't actually know that they're lizards. I'm just hoping they're lizards. And not giant scorpions. Or enormous spiders. Or...)

The sound of fireworks that sound like cannons going off at three in the morning. 

BOOM

KABOOM

What the fuck? Of all hours they could set off a firework/cannon... why three in the morning? WHY? 

Now I sleep through the three am boom kaboom. 

I've grown resigned to the odd black scorpion which slithers across the table or under the blue bench cushions. Not that I don't lift the cushions before I sit to double check. Or shake out my sheets at night. Twice. 

I've gotten used to all the bizarre hippie ceremonies in which I occasionally (and quizzically) participate. Like cacao plus ecstatic dance. 

Kayla is the goddess of cacao.

I do not enjoy ecstatic dance. I do not enjoy it one tiny bit, although I appreciate and respect the idea behind it (people enjoying the freedom of movement in their bodies). But I dislike the music, the claustrophobic element (TOO. MANY. HIPPIES), and the fact that many of the dancers just aren't aware of those around them. Because they're not supposed to be. Which is why some people blissfully take up all the available space doing yoga poses on the floor while other people hardly have enough room to half-heartedly wiggle their shoulders.

But I like to take pictures, so with permission from my manager, I snapped a few photos of the ceremony on Sunday.

"It's so not cool to take pictures during an ecstatic dance," one of the head hippies chided me. After my fifth photo. "No cameras allowed here," he continued with such aloof condescension that my middle finger had a hard time staying connected to the others.

But it managed. Barely.

"I work here," I stood my ground. "My manager asked for photos for the facebook page."

Head hippie caught sight of the owner and rushed down to talk with her. About the inappropriate volunteer photographer.

This is one reason I guess I can't be a hippie. I don't think I'm intense enough. Which is saying something. I've never been accused of having an insipid personality

I decided to avoid further confrontation and to abandon the ecstatic dance, heading back to the cafe area to help Nela and Michelle make Bliss Balls. 

Bliss Ball Recipe:

Roasted Cacao (a lot)
Peanuts (even more)
Cashews (a bit less)
Honey (... I like more than is necessary)
Cooked plantains (a couple)
Cinnamon, cayenne, salt
Coconut shavings (an ABUNDANCE)
Orange extract (if you're feeling adventurous)

(Nele approves of this recipe)

Grind everything to bits using the grinder bike. In shifts, if necessary (it's always necessary for me). If possible, present blending as a fun activity and trick guests into doing the work for you.

In other, less hippie (and less delicious) news, I've been taking Spanish classes with Gigi. We've learned articles, pronouns, possessives, a few objects, and body parts (and by "learned," I mean that I've written them all down). 

My favorite Spanish revelation is that if you want to tell someone "don't be stingy!" you say, "no seas codo!" 

Which literally translates into, "Don't be an elbow!" 

No one knows why. 

But on my way to Gigi's house the other day, I ambled through a dirty alley and past a mother with two young boys. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the mother look at my backpack and then gesture to the boy closest to me. Instinctively, I drew my backpack to my side and rested my left arm across the zippers. Then I glanced back at the boy. He stood still, looking confused. Then walked back to his mother. 

Did that mother just tell her son to rob me? 

"I think a kid tried to go for my backpack today," I confided in Gigi at our lesson. "I don't want to assume or blow it out of proportion, but... but it felt weird. What do you think?" I asked, after telling her the full story. 

"Yes, you have to be careful here," Gigi nodded knowingly. "A friend of mine was talking to small children, some of them distracted her while one stole everything from her bag." 

God. I'm going to have a hard time trusting munchkins here. I hate that.

In the spirit of team bonding, we had Classy Lady's Night the other evening. Wherein we lit candles (moths promptly flew into the flames and sizzled to a very classy death), drank shitty boxed wine, ate black olives out of a can, and watched the first episode of WestWorld.

(Shut up, you wish you were as classy as us)

This is what I'd hoped for, I thought as I contentedly sipped my glass of gross wine and curled up on the mattress with Nele and Rachel. While keeping my eyes peeled for scorpions. Of course.

And for my final bit of news, I seem to have become a working artist.  As in, I paint and people buy my paintings. It's mind-boggling to me.

But it makes me so perfectly happy. To create something that people love enough that they want to purchase. Makes me feel like my silly little paintings can have an impact.

Makes me feel like maybe, someday, I can make a life and a living out of art. And that... that would be a life I'd love to live. 
 

The Shift -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from The Forest Cafe. A sizzling sound and the smell of eggs wafts over from the kitchen, where Maria and Victoria prepare our breakfast. Or Magda and Julia. Or... I'm not sure. I still can't quite remember the names of the local ladies. Sometimes I feel guilty about it. And then I remember that they can't remember my name either, and I feel better.

"Como te llamas?" they ask whenever they see me.

"Aimee."

"eh-may?"

"Aimee."

"Eh-Muh."

I shrug, accepting whatever vowels they decide to give me. As "Nele," the German girl does whenever I butcher her name.

"Can you say your name again for me?" I ask her.

"Nele."

"Nay-luh?"

"No, Nele."

"Nee-luh?"

And she shrugs her shoulders and smiles. Letting me know that I haven't quite gotten it right, but that she's not going to make a big deal about it. Which I'm sure she's used to doing.

A group of Belgians just stumbled up the hill, panting heavily and sweating prolifically. Wearing shorts and sports bras.

They. Will be devoured alive, I thought in alarm. Even though the daytime weather of Guatemala is quite toasty, I never wear shorts. Or my sports bra (by itself, at least).

Ever.

I usually wear long sleeves, long pants, and boots. I would much rather melt into a puddle of stinky sweat than blow up into an itchy, pink bug bite.

A light breeze brushes against my cheek. Sunlight speckles the leaves overhead. Indie sits in the corner, basking in the morning warmth.

 The smell of eggs makes my empty stomach rumble in anticipation.

I've been losing weight. Not only are the stairs sculpting my ass better than Michelangelo sculpted marble (David ain't got nothing on this shit), I have been reduced to two vegetarian meals a day. Else my stomach is forever a restless, bloated ball of fomenting gaseous fury. So I eat breakfast at 8:30, have a cappuccino for lunch, and then eat dinner at 6:00. My poor, grain-ridden belly can't handle any more than that.

Bre (like the cheese. At least I can say her name) served the Belgians some steaming lemongrass tea, and now they're sitting around and sharing life goals, travel plans and such. As one does here.

I love that this is the kind of space that leads to important questions. That creates such openness. Such immediate openness. 

I led my first mind-dump style meditation a few days ago. In my notebook, my cramped hand furiously scribbled, "I feel like my thoughts are flowing too quickly to work with right now. One flying after the next in such quick succession that each thought seems like a half thought. That's what my life feels like some days. A half life. A half baked something or other. I begin in one direction but another idea, another passion barrels into me and I'm redirected. Am I afraid of finishing? Or... am I afraid of never starting? Never exploring that new idea, that new passion. Not giving every single part of myself the chance to be examined. Maybe it's a bit of both." 

I wrote yesterday that a dramatic change would need to occur in order for me to stay here. Especially with all my other passions calling me. Loudly.

I believe that dramatic change happened last night. In the form of a new manager, a German fellow named Jonas, and Michelle, his Swiss/Australian girlfriend from the circus. These two exude community. If that's a possible thing to exude. They're also committed to giving us volunteers more of a voice in our lives here. We will get to design the schedule ourselves, picking the shifts that work best for us. We can also branch out to help in different areas, which is what I'd originally wanted when I contacted The Forest a few months ago. I'd like to create a position for myself wherein I photograph guests and trainees, interview them, and post the short interviews with a couple of photographs on The Yoga Forest's facebook. We also discussed how to advertise myself as a massage therapist and artist.

Although I haven't got my oils with me. Just these watercolors, which I don't exactly feel comfortable with...

I attended a writing workshop yesterday, led by a British chap named Nial, a work-exchanger at Circles. The workshop took place in Eagle's Nest, a small portion of Fungi Academy (you can guess what they do there).

The view was spectacular.

Most creative endeavors in San Marcos la Laguna commence with cacao. And Nial's writing workshop was no different.

Kayla chopped cacao and brewed a massive pot of the thick, fragrant, heart-opening, hippie beverage. She was especially fond of her whisk. And demanded a picture posing with it.

I'm including Kayla's Super-Secret-Amazingly-Spectacular-Orgasmic-Englightening-Cacao-Concoction. For your drinking pleasure.

Remember. It's a secret. It's a super secret. Should you share this super secret, Kayla has made it clear to me that she will find you. I asked what she would do to the people she finds, and she said, "I'll leave it to their imagination."

So. There's that.

And here's this: Kayla's Super-Secret-Amazingly-Spectacular-Orgasmic-Englightening-Cacao-Concoction

 Water. Lots of water. Kayla lost count of the cups, so she can't really confirm the exact amount.

Cacao. An abundance. So much cacao. Usually a block is for 12 people.

"How much is a block?"

"I don't know, grams and shit is on the internet."

Boil lemongrass and panela. In the uncertain amount of water. Once water has boiled, remove the lemongrass.

If you prefer sweet cacao, add more honey and/or panela.

If you want something to hit the bloodstream faster, add cayenne, turmeric, ginger and cinnamon. You can also add medicinal mushrooms. Not the crazy kind. Can add orange flavor. Two drops. Because it makes the cacao oily and greasy.

As the final hippie culinary note: lots of love. And sun. And other hippie rigmarole. Like gratitude. Drink an abundance of water after (this can be served with or without love/sun/gratitude). Don't drink if you have heart condition, depression or are of the canine/feline species.

I found the final exercise of the writing workshop the most interesting. Primarily because it showed me what clear direction I have. Which is something I rarely feel.

Our prompts were the following:

a) What would you congratulate your future self on?

b) what achievements would you mention?

c) what vision do you see?

I gazed out at the lake as the sun drifted down behind the mountains, leaving a pink hue lingering in the sky, like a final breath.

  
Congratulations for finding honest peace. Not peace through escapism. Not peace through denial. Honest peace. You can feel comfortable examining every bit of your heart. You've cast out, dissolved any dishonesty and delusion without yourself.  And are just... at peace. 

You've found a place you fit. You've faced your fears, explored your fears, and formed a community in a city that makes you happy.  And now you can be an active part of that community

I see myself working with people who struggle with trauma and addiction. Using yoga. Mindfulness. Cognitive therapy. 

 I feel safe. At home. My feet still itch, but I'm happy to invest my time and energy where I am.  

Leaving My Soul at the Door -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

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.

New Roommates -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

I'm starting this post post from Circles Cafe. A place with chill music, frequent dog fights, an option to put turmeric in your latte, cappuccinos served in topsy-turvy clay bowls, and a wifi password of "happy rainbow. "

Is there such a thing as a sad rainbow? I wonder what that would look like. Sad rainbow. Or angry rainbow. Haha. Curmudgeonly rainbow. Resentful rainbow.

I'm waiting for Namish, an Indian chap I met at Three Monkeys Hostel in Antigua, to arrive. One of the best parts of traveling Central America is that often, people travel the same sort of path.

I wonder where I'll run into him next time. 

I've now been at the Yoga Forest for over a week. And while there are a good many aspects of this place that rub me the wrong way (just serve coffee in the morning, dammit), I feel that enough of my passions are being satisfied to keep me here for my three months.

Each day starts off with me teaching a yoga class, taking a yoga class, or "space holding." Space holder is a fancy title for "kitchen bitch/receptionist". The one who prepares fruit, salad, washes a few dishes, and greets exhausted and sweaty guests after they've trudged up the never-ending stairs. At some point, I'm usually able to hike down the hill to San Marcos. Where I indulge in coffee, Wi-Fi, and melt into a space wherein nothing is expected of me. To retreat inside myself and pour out my heart through writing and painting.

I've even found a local poet who does workshops at Circles Cafe once a week. The workshop yesterday included limericks. I quickly scratched the following into my notebook:

I'm not sure how long I will last...

This vegan diet gives me gas. 

I pine for the days

When I cured malaise

With a bacon and eggs repast. 

Nele, a yoga volunteer from Germany

Bri (like the cheese) and Kayla, volunteers from Canada and France

Kayla has all the style.

Walking along the winding dirt trail to San Marcos, I dodge steaming piles of dog shit. I hear rustling in the tall grass and wonder what kind of creature is making itself at home. I see small Guatemalan men deftly carrying large stacks of wood up the hill. Small Guatemalan women balancing cumbersome baskets atop their heads. School children scampering along the path, black hair trailing behind them.

"Hola!" they shout over their shoulders, bright eyes catching mine for a moment.

"Hola," I reply to the dust they leave behind.

I see a tall, slender Caucasian woman dressed in a thin, flowing skirt with elephants on it. She wears half a shirt, revealing a belly-button piercing and a sacred geometry tattoo. Her blonde hair is dreaded  and has the occasional feather poking out. Her graceful, expressive hands and fingers are adorned with bangles and rings that catch the sunlight and click against each other when she gesticulates.

"What are you doing for the full moon tomorrow?"she asks the hippie across from her.

"Oh, I think we'll start off with a cacao ceremony. To open the heart. And then we'll set intentions and meditate. And then have an ecstatic dance."

...

"Hola," the hippies greet me as I pass.

"Hola," I respond, cringing slightly. It seems to be customary here to say "hola", regardless of whether you know with 100% certainty that the other part is a native English speaker. Which... I dunno... feels a bit odd. I can understand, support, and respect greeting locals in their language, but it feels bizarre to be carrying on an English conversation and then say, "hola" to someone else. Who was also in the midst of an English conversation.

San Marcos smells like fried papas and pollo. Also like incense, tuk-tuk exhaust, and dog shit.

"Taxi? Hola? Taxi?" the tuk-tuk drivers call out as I pass their line-up on the way to my cafe.

"No, gracias," I reply with a smile, exhausting my last bit of Spanish.

I'm always careful to walk back to The Yoga Forest well before dark. Like in Mexico, the numerous street dogs can become very aggressive at night. And I... well... I forgot to get my rabies vaccination before coming to Guatemala. There has been a movement to vaccinate the animals, so every dog sporting a red plastic collar is rabies-free, but their are plenty of collarless dogs wandering around... And I've gotten to a place where I've been attacked by dogs so many times that the moment I sense a smidgen of aggression, I panic. My heart starts pounding in my chest and I freeze.

Which is how I react to most traumatic situations. Just freeze. It's all very healthy.

The dogs sense my fear and I'm sure it makes it all worse. So they get more aggressive and I get more panicky and I'm sure that this is how I'll one day die of rabies.

Blurgh. 
 
The trail also makes me nervous at night, because although the village of San Marcos la Laguna is safe during the day and the touristic areas are safe at night, I don't trust the trails on the outskirts. Guatemala is the one place wherein someone I know was stabbed because he resisted robbery. In San Pedro, just one village over. And here in San Marcos, I local woman was raped a couple of weeks ago.

So regardless of whether or not I'm working at night, I make sure to be back within the gates of The Yoga Forest by four or five at the latest.

So far, I think the main issue that could lead me to prematurely end my time here, is that I don't feel comfortable in my space. The circus tent in which I sleep isn't a home for me. It's a space I reluctantly return to at night and leave as soon as I can in the morning.

For an introvert, that isn't really sustainable. 

There's a large black beetle who is currently building a home inside the pole that holds up my tent. Every night when I poke my head inside, I'm greeted with a pyramid of sawdust on my blankets.

 

My black beetle roommate (I've named him Charlie) is annoying, but I'm not afraid of him. He does his business, I try to shake off the sawdust before I go to bed, and that's it. The more loathsome, unwelcome roommates are the spiders and scorpions.

"Last time I was here, I saw one scorpion in a whole month!" I exclaimed to one of the guests. "I've only been here a week this time, and I've already seen six!"

"It's the season. The scorpions and spiders come out when it gets cold. The rainy season is the time for flies and mosquitoes."

So I religiously shake out my sheets before going to sleep. I shook out my sheets last night, and this fellow flew onto my mat and skittered towards the edge of my tent.

He didn't make it very far.

At the Yoga Forest, scorpions and spiders are not killed. They are relocated. It is not yogic to kill scorpions and spiders.

Then I'm not a fucking yogi. Because I will squash every one of these little bastards I find in my space. 

I stared at the scorpion corpse for a few minutes, in a daze.

There was a scorpion in my bed. IN MY BED. BETWEEN MY SHEETS.

How am I going to sleep tonight? 

I didn't sleep well that night. Every five minutes, I'd turn on my headlamp and sweep it across the floor of my tent, seeing if it would catch the eyes of spiders or scorpions lurking in the cracks.

I don't think I'm meant for jungle. Gah.

The Cacao Ceremony -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

I've been at The Yoga Forest for six days now. During the course of those days, I have taught two yoga class and taken two classes in a gorgeous new studio. 

Gosh, it feels good to teach again. 
 

And it feels amazing to participate in the classes of others. I haven't consistently taken yoga classes since... since, well, my teacher training back in 2011. Most yoga classes are just too expensive for me to participate in. So this will be such a good opportunity for me to expand my practice. Holy bananas. 
 

I have acquired dozens of mosquito/gnat bites, even though I am incessantly, obsessively smearing all exposed body parts with citronella bug balm.  Many of the bites probably take place when I'm otherwise occupied and vulnerable on the toilet or in the shower.

The water pressure in the outdoor shower is nothing to blog about, but the heat has been a happy surprise. The Yoga Forest operates entirely off of solar energy, so when the sun is shining, we get hot showers and internet. And when the sun doesn't shine, well... we are sad, cold, wifi devoid hippies.

I've started checking all layers of blankets for scorpions and spiders before I tuck myself into bed at night. My circus tent home has been torn in several places, and all manner of creepy-crawlies can (and do) easily slip inside through the haphazardly taped together material. And through the Velcro door that doesn't quite close all the way. Sometimes I enter my tent to find an enormous spider squatting next to my mattress on the floor, waiting for me. I attack with my shoe, but it simply slips between the gigantic cracks in the floorboards. Out of sight and very much in mind.

I go to bed every night thinking, It's okay, Bourget. Scorpions in Guatemala have a sting a bit worse than a hornet. You're not going to die.

Something skitters across the floor, shadows dancing in the light from my headlamp.

You ARE NOT going to die. 

Then I smear my face with another layer of bug balm and draw the mosquito net over my torso and try to forget about the formidable spider underneath the floorboards.

Last Sunday, I attended my first cacao ceremony. Complete with ecstatic dance and didgeridoos. I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into, but I figured, hey, a cacao ceremony would probably include some variety of chocolate. And, well, Girl doesn't hate chocolate.

All attendees sat in an... umm... sacred circle as cups of thick cacao were passed around. We meditated over the fragrant cacao. We slowly sipped the spicy, rich, sludge as an older hippie with grey dreadlocks began to play the didgeridoo. Shoulders began to roll back and forth, wrists began to swivel, heads began to bob.

How is this different from a normal dance? I thought, doing my best to keep an amused smile from tugging at my lips.

Lots of yoga pants. Lots of thai fisherman pants. Dreadlocks. So many dreadlocks. Hippie tattoos. No grinding. No acknowledging the rest of the dancers, even. Everyone is in their own little world. Oh god. The smell. The hippie stench. The rancid smell of natural deodorant not working. Dogs getting into spats all over the dance floor. People doing pigeon pose. Just sinking down into it right in the middle of everyone. 

...

Give me an Irish pub and a Bulmers any day. 

Ceremonial grade cacao (I don't even know what that means) has been used for centuries to unlock euphoria. To release negative energy and... ummm... open the heart?

There is a smidgen of science behind all this hippie cacao business. Which I always appreciate. The theobromine found in cacao facilitates the release of dopamine. Which feels nice for everyone. It also contains a compound called phenethylamine -- which can help relieve stress and depression.

Still. Irish pub. And a Cadbury. Any day.  

Since there are six volunteers at the moment, I teach three classes a week and "space hold" for maybe twenty hours or so. Space holding involves hanging out here, making salads and greeting visitors. As there aren't so many visitors and the salad takes only an hour to make, I spend most of my time reading and playing Teal Cecile.

Certainly can't say they're overworking me this time...
 

I think I'm getting sick again. Which was one of my main fears about returning to the Yoga Forest. Even though I'm washing and disinfecting my hands regularly, am only drinking filtered water, and am eating very few raw fruits and vegetables... I seem to have caught a parasite.
Which is fun.

I was awake nearly all night last night, tossing and turning on my mattress in excruciating stomach pain. Roiling, broiling gut turmoil. Pain that spread to my whole torso and penetrated my joints with a deep, heavy ache.

This. Doesn't feel fair. I've been so good. Trying so hard to not get sick. Ach. 

And since I don't have sulfur burps, I don't have giardia. So it isn't an easy fix. I'll have to find my way to a clinic, get a stool sample taken, and figure out what the hell is happening inside my battered body.

woohoo...

Bourget. Here's the deal. If you're sick for most of this month, leave this place. Go to Antigua to study Spanish. Being sick for an entire month isn't worth your 300 dollar deposit. Not even close. Do your best to fix this, to take care of yourself... but don't linger in a place that makes you unhealthy. Period.