Ritual steam bath in Mexico

Purify your body and soul in the sensory sauna of a traditional Mexican temazcal under the guidance of a resident shaman

Published On Mon Oct 26 2009

MAYAN RIVIERA, MEXICO–Every hotel has a concierge these days. The cutting-edge employee to have at hotels in Mexico's Yucatan is a resident shaman – a healer, mystic and guide and a respected position among cultures around the world.

They preside over a temazcal, a ritual steam bath not unlike an aboriginal sweat lodge, and said to purify the body inside and out.

Ten of us – Mexican, American, Swiss, South American and Canadian – recently walked a candle-lit path to a low adobe structure in the jungle behind our hotel to experience a temazcal.

Gerardo Carrera, the shaman-in-residence at Hacienda Tres Rios, waited silently at the head of the path.

The slightly-built man with a gentle smile told us we were about to experience purification, healing, rebirth and a chance to become one with the universe inside us.

A lover of saunas, I've spent a day at a simple Russian-Jewish schvitz in New York and hit steam rooms in Toronto whenever I can.

This one has the added advantage of combining the relaxing heat with an Aztec-Mayan ritual, offering a shot at transformation.

Free for guests at the ecopark-luxury hotel, the temazcal seemed like true "why not?" adventure.

But not everybody was into the mystic. A trio of young American women had the giggles and didn't think much of the ravenous mosquitoes or the liquid mud Carrera asked us to rub on our bodies to create a connection with the Earth.

He didn't scold them, but only asked if they were okay when they erupted in shrieks or snorting laughter.

We stood beside an inky black cenote – a fresh-water sinkhole the Maya consider sacred – and faced the four cardinal directions as Carrera blew a conch shell and asked the universe to open four "doors."

Then, we made our way a few steps along a shell path to the abode igloo-like temazcal, a structure measuring about five metres across with fire pit in the centre and a lone, low door one step up and covered with a grass-mat flap.

A chamber jutted out from one side where lava rocks were being heated to glowing-high temperatures.

For now, it was cool inside the adobe. Using his hands to guide us, Carrera had each of us crouch at the entrance, our backs facing inside.

He squatted, a hand resting lightly on my shoulder.

"For those who have gone before, for those here tonight, for those who will come afterwards," he whispered in my ear.

We sat on sweet-smelling grass mats around the empty fire pit as Carrera taught us some Aztec words to repeat to call for the door flap to be opened or closed, to bring fire, to express welcome or to thank speakers.

There was a precise ritual to all of it, which helped to dispel unease about the newness of the experience.

With a shouted command from all of us, the door flap was lifted and the shaman began shoveling glowing red-hot lava rocks into the fireplace.

The door flap was lowered and he began leading us through chants and songs in Spanish and English. We were asked to meditate on what we hoped for ourselves and the world as the room grew hotter and hotter.

As Carrera dumped handfuls of water onto the stones, a huge cloud of steam erupted, plunging the temazcal into complete darkness.

My first thought wasn't about purification, it was gratitude for not being claustrophobic. Carrera guided us through a series of chants and meditations. He clapped in rhythm and sang simple, almost child-like songs about soaring eagles and open hearts.

We passed large bunches of mint and rosemary from hand to hand in the darkness and rubbed the fragrant herbs on ourselves to encourage healing.

The smell in the moist heat was like a jungle in full flower. Carrera asked us to go around the circle and voice wishes and hopes for the future of humanity and express what we wanted to learn that night.

Our voices were disembodied in the blackness – the room seemed to expand and I had no idea where I was or who was beside me, until the woman to my left clasped my hand, our fingers wrapped around a bunch of rosemary.

More rocks were added at our shouted command and some light came to the room, which was murky and thick with steam.

Then Carrera added more water and it was dark once again. Sweat ran down my body and the mud dripped into my eyes and mouth. The man beside me started to sigh in the darkness.

All the time, drums were beating outside, or a bell was being softly rung. Although I knew time was passing, I had no idea how long were were inside the building as we performed rituals to open the four directional doors inside us – north, south, east, west.

Just as the heat became unbearable, a cup of cold water was passed around the circle. We were told we had to make it last so that the final person was able to have a sip and then a jug of water was passed so we could drink our fill.

I later learned were were inside for about two hours and I wasn't sure if time passed quickly or slowly as we emerged one by one, Carrera whispering the same words to each of us as when we'd entered the temazcal.

Outside, in the cool night air, we greeted each person leaving the adobe with "welcome" and a hug before trotting down the path to follow the shaman and plunge into the chilly water of the cenote.

Refreshed and pleasantly exhausted, we climbed out to find platters of fresh fruit and a vat of delicious, barely warm herbal tea flavoured with lemon, chunks of pineapple, pineapple leaves and hunks of honeycomb waiting for us.

"Eat, drink," Carrera encouraged us as we broke into excited chatter about how we felt, how soft our skin was, what we had experienced.

As we sipped our tea, Carrera leaned into the flame of a torch and lit a cigarette with a sheepish smile. Shamans have their vices too.

Linda Barnard is the Star's movies editor.