Mexico's Temezcal Ritual
by Susan Hoffman

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The temezcal is an ancient ritual steam bath.

The Aztecs, the Maya, and many other Mesoamerican cultures used this combination of heat, steam, and chanting often along with fasting and the use of natural hallucinogenic drugs to bring about a trance state. The temezcal was used by the king and his priests before engaging in ritual sacrifices in which they would communicate with the gods and the ancestors, seeking blessings for their people. Tourists can still see the remnants of steam baths at many of the ruins such as Tikal, Palenque and Xochicalco. We have the opportunity to participate in a temezcal on the banks of Lake Catemaco, Veracruz, Mexico.

Fifteen of us pick our way along the rocky path barely lit by candles. Antonio greets us silently and directs us to a circle of log benches in a jungle clearing. It is totally dark except for the soft glow of candles ringing the clearing and the glow of lava rocks heating in the clay beehive behind us. We strip to bathing suits. The night air is unusually cool for Mexico. A small woman with walnut-colored skin approaches me with a bowl cradled in her arms. She begins to slather my body with mud. As she rubs wet muck over my arms, legs, face, I can feel the rasp of sand grains beneath the steady pressure of her palms. Cool, damp air slips over us from Lake Catemaco. When she finishes, I wait motionless in the dark as she slaps mud on my companions. I think, if I move the layer of mud will crack and peel.

Soon Antonio directs us along a path to another opening where we stand in a circle, grasping each other's hands. Covered with wet mud, I shiver in the cold night air as Antonio begins to chant, shaking a seed rattle. A small fire glows in the center of the circle, lighting Antonio's face eerily from below. He is a big man and his deep, sonorous voice is soothing. Copal incense smolders in the middle of the circle, smelling of pine leaves and orchids. Antonio's son stalks behind us, around and around, shaking the rain stick. Every time he comes behind me, a glissando of liquid soundwaves trickles down my spine. Someone blows a conch shell, beats a drum, primal notes in the still darkness.

We are led to the temezcal, a clay dome about 20 feet in diameter with a narrow entry hall. In the center is a sunken fire pit ringed by stones, the glow of a few heated lava rocks the only light. Around the edges of the room are woven palm mats. Antonio directs we five women to the right, the men to the left. I can barely see the men but think they must be crowded.

When everyone is seated, Antonio stands at the head of the room opposite the narrow doorway. Before him is a vat of water. As I settle into my place, trying to be comfortable against the inward-sloping walls, Antonio's son enters the door with a pitchfork carrying three or four lava rocks glowing purple and red. Waves of heat from the rocks pass over me; I unconsciously draw my feet closer, away from the fire circle. With a grunt, the youth tosses the rocks in the fire pit and soon returns with more. With every load of rocks, the air in the temezcal is hotter, thicker. Six times he brings in rocks, straining with their weight. Then he leaves and closes the door. The sound of the hissing stones fills the chamber.

Antonio begins to chant - "Omapetasqui" - and as he does he uses a twig with leaves tied onto one end, a little brush, to dip into the vat of water and sprinkle droplets over the rocks. I smell the perfume of herbs as the steam hisses, a jungle odor of oozing mud, orchids, the sap of bromeliads, the flavors and sounds of the forest. As the water sizzles off the lava rocks, the chamber grows dark and smoky. Now the rocks give off little light and the others are little more than silhouettes, but beneath the ashy crust the heat still radiates and fills the room. I sit cross-legged, breathing in the heavy steam. Omapetasqui.

Antonio prays to the four gods Sun, Moon, Water, Earth and to the four directions. He prays in Spanish and sometimes in a language I cannot identify: maybe Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs, the language of shimmering feathers and great stone pyramids and human sacrifices. Omapetasqui. He gathers a few seeds and passes them to the first woman on his left. "Now we can each pray aloud for something we are seeking." She takes the seeds and prays for a safe journey. She gropes in the steamy dark to pass them to me. They are the size of almonds and they rattle together as they spill into my hand. I pray for peace in Chiapas and for all persecuted people, and pass the seeds to my neighbor. When the seeds reach Linda's brother Tom, he prays for his sister and for all those who are traveling with her and all those whose lives she has touched. I chide myself silently for not thinking of that first, and decide to offer the temezcal for Linda. Omapetasqui.

When the seeds return to Antonio, the boy opens the door. A cooling wave of fresh air passes over us, momentary relief, as the steamy vapors swirl around the room. The boy returns with more pitchforks of lava rocks four, five, six times, until the heat is so dense I think I cannot breathe. The door closes, shutting off the last strands of cool air, and again Antonio censes the rocks with scented water. Steam billows and darkens the chamber again. One woman discretely slips out the door. To my left, another woman, the only one not with our group, begins to gasp for breath. I think she is panicking. I tell her to sit with her head down; the air is cooler below the knees. But she can't calm down and she rises on wobbly legs, hunches over to crawl out the door. Despite the thick vapors, I am calm. I inhale the heat, sucking the steam deep into my lungs. I imagine I am sitting beneath a darkened sun that gives no light but envelopes the world in warmth.

Omapetasqui. More chanting, another circle of prayers, and then we sit in silence, only the hiss of the rocks, but in the susurrus of the vapors voices from long ago fill my ears. I see a king dressed in feathers and jade, dancing atop a pyramid, the smoke of torches and incense wrapping around him. I cannot tell at what point the voices in my mind become Antonio's voice, inviting us to chant along, but soon fourteen voices fill the air with the sounds of motion. My body rocks with the rhythm of the chants and I imagine all of our bodies swaying in the darkness. Omapetasqui. The chants grow loud, the tones change and sometimes I pick out an individual voice "Wo, wo, wo-o-o," that's Mike; Kerry is singing "Na-ni-na-oh" and her song rings off the clay walls. I start slapping my knees and thighs, recalling with perfect clarity the primitive rhythms I have heard from a new-age album. The group follows my rhythm and the pace quickens. Suddenly Antonio's "Ho!" rises above the other voices and the chanting stops.

Twice more, the open door, the cool air washing over us, more lava, more censing, steam billowing around us. Sweat beads on my skin and I feel droplets of mud cascading on my arms, my legs, little rivulets dripping off my temples. The air is dense; the steam swirls about like thin wisps of cotton wrapping around my body. Omapetasqui.

Perhaps we've been here an hour; perhaps five. Ancient and new have merged; time is hypnotically circular. The door opens once more and Antonio leads us out into the cold night. Our bodies, superheated, emerge from the clay chamber still flush with the heat of the temezcal. Antonio leads us to a shallow pool. I expect to hear my flesh sizzle as I dive under the icy waters. We splash and cavort and rinse the mud off.

We gather in the silence of the forest around a table spread with fruits and vegetables, some of which I don't recognize. Antonio's wife dips a cup of herbal tea from a ceramic cauldron and hands it to me. Inside I still hold the heat of the temezcalbut my cooled skin prickles in the night air. I grasp the cup with both hands for warmth and inhale its jungle scent.

No one tells us it is time to leave. One by one, the others set down their cups, sling towels over their shoulders and disappear down the darkened path. I want to hang onto the mood of the temezcal so I linger, taking more tea even after most have gone, wanting to return down the path alone.

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