‘Temazcal’ roughly translates to sweat room, and it’s pretty much the combination of steam, chanting and medicinal herbs in a confined space.
You can do a Temazcal throughout most of Mexico as they’re fairy popular with tourists and Mayans alike. I did mine in the mountains of Oaxaca, not only did it feel a little more authentic than doing one next to a Cancun Walmart, but it was cheaper too. Gringo places spur gringo prices so if you want to save your pesos get out of the tourist hot spots and venture inland.
Aside from ticking off a new experience, after ten months of traveling and very little self-care aside from occasionally avoiding tap water, I felt I really could genuinely do with a bit of a wellness pamper. Mind, body and soul. So, if you’re looking for an experience slightly more woo woo than your standard foot scrub and sauna session, a Temazcal might be a nice alternative.
We arrived at our Shaman’s property mid-morning while it was still cool. Jungle plants, and stone mushroom sculptures guided us down the looking glass pathway to what felt like a bona-fide fairyland. Our shaman had two Temazcals on his jungle property. A large Temazcal, the size of a glamping tent and a much smaller one, that looked more suited to toddlers who glamp. The Temazcal sizes differ to accommodate different sized groups rather than varying stature. Both Temazcals were earth-like domes, somewhat resembling an igloo. Except, they’re not made out of ice, but a combination of cement, mud, rock. This one, also had some basic bits of fabric strewn across the sides like pastiche patchwork. It resembled a Tatooine abode that had fallen on hard times.
You can partake in the Temazcal in your birthday suit or modestly clothed. It’s best to check with your Shaman but it’s generally down to whatever you feel most comfortable in. Unsurprisingly, having met my two friends less than forty-eight hours prior, we all respectfully opted to stick with our togs for our spiritual rebirth ensemble.
When it’s time, we crawl inside the Temazcal on all fours, one by one, entering through what can only be described as a generously sized cat door. The interior of the Temazcal is dark, damp and from regrettable experience, too small to stand up in. You feel around a bit in search of seating, aka a cold and clammy log or stone step. The only light is a small horizontal shard of reflected sunlight under the fabric cat door. A glowing emergency exit sign in the event you can’t handle the heat, claustrophobia or existential cliff that you may find yourself on.
Volcanic rocks are used in a Temazcal because they hold their heat very well, our Shaman brought them over in a sort of metal carry cage. He picked them up with his bare hands and gently placed them down between the three of us in our little nest, he then cautions us to not to touch them because “they are very very hot,” he then proceeded to pick up the remaining five, putting them down again with no real sense of urgency. We marveled at the sorcery.
Next comes a huge cauldron of ‘tea’. Hot and aromatic, smelling of different flowers, bark and echinacea. The tea isn’t for us to drink. It’s for the rocks to drink. As the ceremony begins, the first of many ladles of tea saturate the rocks, they hiss instantly and spit out a plume of steam engulfing the space around us, permeating our skin in the process. It doesn’t take long for us to start sweating profusely through all our pores. Our Shaman sits outside chanting incantations while we take turns watering our rocks like diligent children.
The shaman may ask you to join in chanting. For any introverted millennial who recoils from answering the phone, the possibility is as terrifying as a Hitchcock third act.
I was first lamb to the slaughter, ideally wanting to let out a chant that sounded both serene and composed.
I didn’t.
Panicked, I let out something akin to concerning indigestion coupled with hopeful internet dial up. Our shaman politely suggested perhaps a gentle hum or ‘Om’ would suffice.
When all of us did start to hum and ‘Om’ the sounds reverberated off the inner walls of the Temazcal, creating a series of sonic and tactile vibrations, that further smothered our senses.
A weird rave in a clay cave.
The temperature began to rise more and more after each serving of tea. You sweat as your skin starts to purge everything out from within. After a while we start to zone out, the drumming outside by our shaman, our humming, the hissing rocks, everything fades into the background. With no sensory hooks to latch onto, we sink into ourselves.
This warm dark womb like safe space seems to calm the anxious mind and smoke out the cranial sticky gunk of self-doubt, anxiety and toxic thinking that builds up along the walls of our subconscious. For a few moments, it all recedes and our worries feel distinctly immaterial and powerless.
Skeptics may argue this sense of calm is more likely the result of mild hyperthermia, slight monoxide poisoning and the inhalation of herbal rock juice at altitude, rather than divine spiritual intervention.
Tom-ay-toes. Tom-ah-toes.
Just as you feel like you’re nearing your heat temperate limits and could genuinely levitate a spaceship out of a swamp using your mind. The chanting stops and it’s all over.
You’re individually asked to expel yourself from the Temazcal’s tiny entrance headfirst, one by one. Reborn.
You’re guided over by the Shaman, a little disoriented and unsteady, like you’re taking your first breath and then your first steps. You’re led over to an outside shower a few meters away. The cold water snaps you back into reality. The yin to the yang of your human hot pot experience, the cold water washes away your sweat and toxins and locks in your new clear mind.
We’re released albeit fairly dehydrated, but feeling clean and purified. We suck on giant water bottles and toddle back up the road, like overgrown toddlers who do glamp after all.