The War to Inner Peace

SIGHTS: huito tattoos, bamboo posts, colibrís (hummingbirds)

SMELLS: Palo Santo smoke, damp earth, turmeric

SOUNDS: ukulele chords, cicada hums, rain

FEELS: mud, sweat, mosquitos

TASTES: cacao, bananas, gomasio

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"Tierra mi cuerpo (Earth is my body),

agua mi sangre (water is my blood),

aire mi aliento (air is my breath),

y fuego mi espíritu (and fire my spirit)."

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I've long dreamt of visiting the jungle. To experience the biodiversity; to witness the rapid cycle of life and death; to be in the presence of creatures I've only seen in David Attenborough specials; to be covered head-to-toe in mosquito bites...

[the last one wasn't really part of my dreamy jungle fantasies, just a realistic expectation]

I got a taste of the jungle in my previous volunteer opportunity in Mocoa, Colombia, and that taste was so sweet I hungered for more...so I rambled into my next volunteer experience in the Ecuadorian jungle, or selva, where the sweet flavor of the forest physically manifested into an abundance of tropical fruit trees on an ecological farm in Santo Domingo de los Tsáchilas.

Kitchen Creativity

The land is overflowing with banana, avocado, coffee, lime, papaya, cacao, and more...but the true magic comes from those who have taken part.

Christian, a humble guide and radical dreamer, grew up on this land of natural splendor and land cultivation, though the contrast of the growing industrious city of Santo Domingo made alternative spaces more and more desirable. Christian's journey and experiences inspired him to create and build an environmentally and socially conscious community, which is exactly what he started in 2012.

I arrived on the finca, or farm, after most of the systems and structures have already been built. The river water has been filtered and pumped to a small spigot; the shelters have already been constructed and weatherproofed for the rainy months; the garden beds have been raised and amended; the composting toilets have been created and are in use; the art has been imagined and beautifully shared...the evidence of past effort and energy was apparent from the moment I arrived, and I felt extreme honor to meet those who held the institutional knowledge of the finca's beginnings, such as Christian and his wife Charlotte.

The finca was about a 10-minute walk from the main road, through multiple barbed wire gates, down steep, muddy hills, and up dozens of earthen steps. Charlotte met me at the road entrance, and helped navigate the natural obstacles that only became more difficult under the night sky. After three Buster Keaton-esque falls, Charlotte quickly learned about my special relationship with gravity, but still graciously welcomed me and kindly ignored the large mud stains that accompanied my first impressions.

My time on the finca was bookended with amazing communal meals. Upon my arrival, a decadent vegetarian feast was prepared by the other volunteers and enjoyed in the candlelight until everyone was fully satiated.

A lot of my contributions to the finca took place in the cocina, or kitchen. Due to my health needs, I have certain dietary requirements that can make communal living a bit of a challenge, and so to make things easier, I offered to cook when necessary. Inspired by the bounty of fresh fruit and excited by the challenge of preparing meals for 8+ people without electricity, I felt my innate Jewish-mother instincts come to life. I was also surrounded by so many wonderful cooks from different parts of the world, and so our collaborative kitchen creations became a large part of my experience.

Each day spoiled me. Perfectly ripened bananas and freshly ground cacao were breakfast staples; large avocados and limes were always available; and new international tastes were introduced, such as gomasio, or sesame seed salt, and salprieta, which is toasted, ground peanuts and corn mixed with cumin, coriander, salt, and pepper. Dishes were often dictated by whatever leftovers or remaining ingredients we had, such as arepas made with soup from the previous night (Charlotte's genius idea) or falafel made with turmeric root from the garden. Each meal was a delicious mix of flavors, styles, and cultures.

Sharing the process of cooking food and eating together was a wonderful foundation for an ecological farm, but that was just one part...

Flora and Funa

As a nature nerd, this ecosystem was my wonderland. Frequent sightings of rare birds, playful games to find the camouflaged insects, the continual growth and regrowth of mushroom heads, endless access to plants and sediments, ever-marching lines of leaf-cutter ants and termites, and epic rainstorms that felt both foreboding and protective.

I spent hours exploring and documenting the life around me. With every new species or curious observation, my mind and body became fully activated with questions and intrigue. Some of the flora and fauna was familiar, but others remained unrecognizable (even if they shared the same common names and properties). The daily acquisition of knowledge for the new never got old.

My fascination with and appreciation for naturaleza, or nature, grows with the more I learn...which is why now, after learning how to process cacao, I eat every piece of chocolate with the gratitude it deserves.

The step-by-step cacao process was long, meditative, and tasty. After plucking a ripe pod from a nearby tree, we cut it in half and harvested the seeds. We bit and savored the juicy, white flesh inside, and gathered the remaining brown seeds. After a few days of letting them air dry, we roasted them just enough so that the seed husks separate and we could easily peel them off. After sampling a few of the freshly roasted seeds, we ground them by hand and collected the creamy cacao cluster to store (...or eat immediately). The cáscaras, or shells, can also be saved to be used for tea or to be mixed with coffee.

Eating at every step in the process made it even more rewarding.

In addition to harvesting plants to eat, we also utilized the natural dyes and properties of certain species. We used achiote to paint our bodies, however, the plant is also used as both an orange-red food coloring and holds a great significance to the region's indigenous tribe, the Tsáchila.

Back when the tribe was unfortunately overrun with smallpox and yellow fever, the Tsáchila shamans held a ceremony to ask the spirits for protection. The shamans were guided to the achiote bush, and after covering their bodies with the seed juice, the mortality rate from the diseases dropped. Since that time, the Tsáchila honor the plant by using it in ceremonies and coloring and shaping their hair to look like helmets. During the Spanish Colonization, the Spaniards called the Tsáchila los "Colorados" which means "colored red," and is why the region is also known as Santo Domingo de los Colorados.

Another plant that we commonly used was from a fruit of the Genipa americana tree, called huito or jagua. The fruits are edible and are commonly used in drinks, preserves, or sweets, however, they also have a powerful dye that's used as a temporary tattoo. Once the unripe fruit oxidizes for a few hours, the juice turns a dark-blue/black color and can stain skin for more than two weeks. Many native tribes in the Amazon use the plant dye for body ornamentation and medicinal purposes.

Everyone on the finca had their own huito-tattoo flair. Some created beautiful spirals on shoulders and arm bands, others artistically covered an entire body part for a strikingly cool look...and some tried to make neat designs, but ended up with multiple asymmetrical smudges and blue/black fingers that horrified others weeks after leaving the finca (one guess who donned the latter)...

Held in biophilia's kind embrace, I surrendered to my fervor and enriched my connection to the natural world. I absorbed the information that Christian and Charlotte shared during the nature walk they led; I gave thanks to the plants I used, and to the animals I shared the space with; I bathed in the river and followed Charlotte's lead to ritualize the cleanse by first covering my body in the bank's clay deposits, washing-off the dried sediment, soaking my skin with lime juice, and after rinsing once more, finishing with a layer of water steeped with albahaca, or basil, that was grown on the finca. My passion for the outdoors soon turned spiritual, and while I'm still unsure what my exact beliefs are, my time on the finca was fundamental to my ever-evolving journey.

The War within Us All

The finca's name is "Kuruksetra." It is in honor of the 18-day-long war that's chronicled in the Indian epic poem, Mahabharata, and describes the conflict between two groups of cousins who both wanted the throne in the Indian kingdom of Kuru. The Kurukshetra War's history is rich and deeply symbolic in Hindu faiths, and while I can pretend to know what I'm talking about after reading some Wikipedia pages (which I'll admit is what I do each time I write a blog post)...I'm still ignorant about the full meaning of Kuruksetra.

What I do know is why Christian decided upon the name. He believes that we all struggle with an internal war, and that those who may be drawn to volunteer on the Kuruksetra finca, may be searching for a sense of la paz interior, or the inner-peace.

Inner-peace seems to be a theme amidst my travels. During one of the many long bus-rides in Colombia, I chatted extensively with the man next to me about the idea of paz interior. This was when my Spanish skills were very basic, and so the conversation primarily took place on Google Translate in order to best understand the profundity of his thoughts. When I was a volunteer in Mocoa, Colombia, Ricardo and his wife also spoke of the importance of securing la paz interior, and dedicated their lives to helping others with that mission. And here I was on an ecological farm whose namesake is intended to evoke inward reflection and growth. With each encounter building upon the next, I felt ready to address my personal conflicts and unearth the opportunities for harmony within.

The people and wildlife at Kuruksetra remain guideposts in this process, and they provided many supportive tools and opportunities, including the temazcal ceremonies that they led.

Temazcal comes from the Aztec language, Nahuatl, and means "bath house," though we commonly refer to them in English as a sweat lodge. Temazcals were used by the indigenous people in Mesoamerica and are still used today in Indigenous cultures of Mexico, Central America, and select places around the world. The ceremony is used for various physical ailments, spiritual healing, and childbirth. The structure is typically a circular dome and can be made from rock, adobe, wood, mud, and cloth. During the ceremony, volcanic stones are heated in a fire and placed in a pit in the center of the temazcal.

A few hours before my first temazcal ceremony, I began to panic. I worried about the heat intensity and how it might impact my body. I worried about what I might emotionally release and what I would be left with. I worried about being with new people (this ceremony was open to the public) and if I'll be able to dedicate the practice to my needs.

As my fears took hold, I realized that this could be a good opportunity to manage my stress with meditation and actively start working towards la paz interior. And so I tried my best to not expect anything and go into the ceremony with an open heart and mind.

The women started the ceremony by walking clockwise around the fire, our right hands extended to the flames. Once we arrived at the temazcal door, we bowed our bodies at the entrance, asked for permission to enter, thought of an intention to bring to the space, kept our bodies low to the ground, walked in towards the left, and had a seat on the dirt. The men followed in the same manner.

After everyone was seated, Christian majestically blew into a conch shell to call to the four directions and elements, and signal the commencement. He shoveled a few volcanic rocks from the fire and moved them into the empty pit inside the temazcal, where we greeted the rocks by saying, "bienvenidas, abuelitas" or "welcome, grandmothers." Each rock was scorched with the crystalized resin of a copal tree, which is often used as incense and an energetic cleanser. This process repeated until the space was hot enough to close the first door.

There are four doors that are open during the ceremony, and they represent the four elements: earth, water, air, and fire. The entire ceremony honors these elements by using each one throughout the ritual. After the door was closed, Christian asked us to share any thoughts or intentions, while he poured medicinal herb-soaked water onto the hot rocks. When it came to my turn to share, I couldn't find the right words in Spanish to fully express myself, but tried my best to convey my gratitude.

Christian led us in couple of songs and chants, though my voice had difficulty finding its way through the thick air. The intensity of the heat grew with each drop of water, and while I originally feared the heat's power, I was able to bring focus to my breath and put my trust in the elements.

When then the door opened, relief hit immediately. I felt my heart return to its normal pace and felt comfortable staying inside even though we were invited to temporarily leave. After some chants led by members of the community, more abuelitas were welcomed and the door was soon closed again. This time the temperature dominated. Sweat streamed down my face, my arms, my chest, my legs, and out of what felt like every pore in my skin. I had more difficulty sitting up straight, and decided to bring my face closer to the ground where the air was cooler.

During the next song that Christian began, I decided to keep a beat instead of sing along. My instinct was to pound my palm on the ground, but due to the sweat, it made a sloshy noise that threw my rhythm off, and so I decided to clap along. It helped me stay focused and not obsess about the heat, and I was able to fully immerse myself in the song. When the tune ended, my friend gently told me that it's best to keep a rhythm on our body or the earth, and that clapping along can be seen as rude.

And in the darkness of the temazcal, tears began to mix with my sweat.

I felt shame and embarrassment for my ignorance, and my consciousness was flooded with many feelings and memories from my past. I thought about other times I've made mistakes, and realized how I still hold on to that guilt and humiliation. I thought about my overuse of the word "sorry"...and that maybe the problem doesn't lie with how frequently I use the word, but how often I genuinely feel apologetic. I thought about my quickness to take responsibility and how easy it is for me to blame myself.

And as the water poured from my body, the physical release slowly turned emotional.

The last song was led by Charlotte and was in English, which made it easier for me to follow along with my voice. As the melody faded away, I felt a lightness in my body and mind. I left the temazcal after the fourth door was opened and took an inhale, deep and slow. Like a baby's first breath, it felt like new life entered my lungs and I was reminded of what Christian and Charlotte said: the temazcal is meant to emulate a mother's womb, and in this case, the earth was our mother.

This small feeling of rebirth helped me take big steps towards addressing some of the inner battles I've been fighting. Even though I've logically known about these struggles for some time, I'm now ready to reach the next level in my progress and implement the change I wish to see. It showed me that it's okay to blunder, and that I can hold onto the lessons and let go of the remorse. That I don't need to hold myself to an unattainable standard that I would never hold another person to. That I'm allowed to take up space, and that my presence is loved and accepted by others.

My first temazcal ceremony continues to stay with me, and I feel extremely fortunate to have participated in a second, more intimate one with just the members of the finca. These ceremonies, paired with the conversations I had with Charlotte, Christian, and other volunteers provided important insight and opportunities to know what it feels like to shed emotional layers. I will continue to work on my feelings of shame and inadequacy, as well as the other bits of emotional discord that came up for me, such as asking for and accepting help.

Kuruksetra was a true gift, for it inspired me to give myself permission to grow and actually uncover la paz interior.