A Night in the Temazcal

The room becomes the womb in the Mexican “house of heat”

I participated in my first temazcal ceremony. And for a few moments, I sincerely thought I was going to die. 

A temazcal is essentially a Mexican sweat lodge. I thought I’d done one before. The place was called a “temazcal.” A friend and I went to a cute little place with sweet old women who burned incense and served tea. We laid in an all-brick sauna with steamy rocks and rubbed oil and aloe all over our bodies, then got massages. It was delightful. It was delicious. 

But it wasn’t a real temazcal. 

A temazcal is meant to be ceremonial — a ritualistic cleansing of the body, mind, and soul. It’s done through sweat, chants, prayer, sweat, drums, and more sweat. They’ve taken place for centuries all over Mexico. Originally they were meant to cleanse people for both before and after going to war. Now, it’s also used by spiritual seekers to channel past lives, hit the “reset,” have psychedelic experiences, etc. They also bring tons of health benefits, like healing common colds, easing arthritis, lightening depression, etc. The intense body heat can remove toxins, while the steam can relieve congestion and respiratory illnesses. The sweat induced can help increase blood circulation, delivering vital hormones to areas of the body that need healing or recovery. 

Essentially, the temazcal is an airtight, pitch black space, usually made of mud, brick, or clay. Some call it the “mother’s womb,” given the darkness, heat, and notion of “rebirth.” The temazcal leader finds volcanic rock, which they call abuelitas (“grandmothers,” in English), which are so old they’re said to contain the millennia-old wisdom of Mother Earth. These rocks are then heated to an absurdly high temperature, to the point that they’re glowing red. They’re then shoveled into a small pit in the middle of the temazcal, where after some chanting and praying, the leader will douse them with water. When this happens, it creates an ungodly amount of heat which fills the room and, literally, cooks the shit out of you. The rocks crackle and hiss (the “voices of the abuelitas”), releasing the memories of the earth and opening the energetic gateways for you to access the beyond.

It’s within this space — this womb — that you receive messages from previous lifetimes, spiritual guidance from ancestors, visions for your future, memories of what it was like inside the actual womb, or just a solid sweat.

“The Great Spirit will grant everything one asks for in the temazcal,” said one leader. “But be careful what you ask for; ask only for what you can really handle.”

For me, I had no plans that night, and it was my last night in Yelapa. I had a sore throat and congestion. I was open to ancestral messages but I wasn’t counting on them. Earlier I met Hector, a Mexican man who’d be leading the ceremony. “Oh, this will be great for you,” he said. “The temazcal will clear your sinuses right out.” So I went.

I had no idea what to expect. I showed up in beach shorts and a towel, like I was going to the county pool. It was me and three other women — who dressed more like they were going to an ancient indigenous sweat ceremony. 

We hiked up the hillside to one of the highest points in Yelapa. Below us was the gentle bay and twinkling lights of the village — above us, the stars. The only thing connecting the two hemispheres was us and the fire, where the rocks patiently waited and gathered heat. 

I arrived to see a half-dome skeletal structure made of bamboo branches. This was our temazcal. Our leader, Hector, draped blankets and heavy tarps all over, making it completely airtight. Another woman named Andrea was helping him. Inside, the floor was dirt. A small hole was dug in the middle, where they’d place the rocks.

A fire was burning outside, with the volcanic rocks nestled within. Each rock is about the size of a cinder block. We sit and chat and start getting chilly from the evening air. It’s now about 8:30pm. The moon is getting bright. Before going in, you are asked to state your intention. What would you like to receive? What questions are you asking? What in your life would you like to change? Hector also shares a very crucial pointer: If it gets too hot, or if you feel faint, just lie on the floor; heat rises, so the coolest place in the temazcal is lying on the earth. 

I know this already, I’ve done a temazcal before, I think to myself. But it’s still good to know.  

We start by clearing our energies. Sage is burned and wafted with an eagle’s feather, a sacred instrument of cleansing. We each get a handful of cedar, hold it to our hearts, center our intention, then sprinkle the cedar over the main fire. Then we enter.

*

Picture: six people seated upright in a small dome. The ceiling is barely above our heads. We’re sitting on dirt. Some brought towels or cushions. Hector has a pitchfork and is shoveling in the giant stones. They’re so hot I can feel the heat when he walks by me. Each time he enters, he says a different word as he lays the stones down: bienvenidas abuelitas (welcome, grandmothers), stardust, medicina, etc. Then the ceremony begins. 

The temazcal has “four doors” – four separate periods of chanting, drumming, and sweating. Hector starts door number one with a short speech about intention, cleansing, gratitude. I am feeling quite relaxed, though incredibly hungry from having skipped dinner. Apparently, energy ceremonies are more effective on an empty stomach. I don’t know how that applies when you’re roasting yourself in an oven, but I was along for the ride. My throat was also still on fire.

Our eyes are closed and all are breathing and meditating. Then, Hector brings in a few buckets of water. He closes the curtain and we are enshrouded in pitch black. 

And then things get hot. 

As Hector prays aloud, I hear him pick up the bucket and douse the rocks. As soon as the first bucket hits, I feel a wave of heat so thick and strong it nearly knocks me over. My face is cooking. Then he pours the second bucket and I simply collapse. I go straight to the floor, like a limp bag of flour. I try to sit up, but as soon as I’m upright, the heat is so overbearing that I go right back down. It’s like the air is on fire. So I stick to the dirt floor, which is cool. I lay and relax, listening to the drums and the chants and the prayers. I feel fine. 

Door one ends and Hector flings open the curtain. Cold air rushes in. It greets each person with a cooling whoosh. God it feels delicious. 

”The Drop”

Door two begins. I notice all the other women had been sitting up the entire time. I thought, maybe I can sit upright and withstand this one. 

Hector pours the first bucket. I try my best to take it. I last about two seconds and collapse again. This feels hotter than last time. I’m not as relaxed as before. I’m sweating pretty hard now. Not only have Hector and Andrea been sitting upright, they are chanting at the top of their lungs and uttering profound thoughts about the state of the human existence. 

I turn over on my left side and notice a very small pocket of fresh air. I think it’s a tiny break between the wall and ground. Whatever, I’m not saying a word. I lean into it and breathe it in. Gosh it feels good. It’s like my spare oxygen tank, my precious pocket of secret air, and it gets me through door number two. 

In between door two and three, we’re all given some dried rosemary. We sprinkle it on the stones. When they hit, it not only fills the room with a delightful earthy aroma, but the rocks start sparkling, like glitter made of fire. It’s arresting and beautiful, a nifty magic trick of nature. This gives me an excited boost, and I feel ready enough to continue. 

Door three begins and as soon as the curtain comes down, I can tell I’m not feeling it. Hector hasn’t even doused the rocks and already I am on my back. Sure enough, he pours the water and the heat blasts into me. Holy God, it’s like I’m standing next to a rocket launch. I immediately turn to the small slip of fresh air next to me and start sipping it desperately. Even now, it’s hardly enough. The drumming and chanting are louder and far more intense. Or maybe I’m just that much more sensitive. My heart is pounding. I am a pool of sweat and I’m caked with dirt. Shortly, miraculously, door three ends. 

Before door four, the final part of the ceremony, I am on the verge of leaving. I truly do not think my body can withstand another minute of this. The words were inside my throat, I even practiced them repeatedly in my head. Hector, I’m sorry but I need to sit this last one out. I knew the exact intonation I’d use. All I had to do was open my mouth and the words would effortlessly crawl out. But something kept me from doing it. Maybe it was stubbornness, maybe pride, maybe both.

Door four begins. He hasn’t even doused the rocks yet and I’m nearly panicking. It’s still not too late to leave. His opening speech is especially long. This isn’t prepared, he’s speaking from the heart, but man the guy is feeling some gratitude. And it’s going on and on. I appreciate it on one level. On another, I genuinely feel like I could die. I am thinking of the college football players who die of heat stroke. What are the symptoms? How do you know? I say to myself, if I start hallucinating (which is something you’re apt to do in here), then I gotta go. Something also tells me that, if that starts happening, then it’s already too late. 

The bucket drops, the heat explodes. This time, it consumes me. It’s not just around me, but inside me. My gosh, I think, I’m cooking from the inside. The drums feel especially loud. My ear drums are pulsing. My heart is beating even faster.

Another level of panic sets in when I realize that, as I turn to my left, that cold pocket of air is no longer there. Maybe the space got sealed, maybe the heat just completely took over. Now, real panic sets in. My body is squirming and seeking for air; I’m not even controlling it. These are my natural survival instincts. Amazing. My fingers are feeling along the bottom of the cracks, searching for any break in the blanket. I don’t even care if I break the seal. A different part of me is operating now — one that’s far more primal. I look up and see a faint outline of Hector. The moon outside is so bright, and the curtain is just thin enough, that I see a very dim glow around him. That’s enough to tell my mind and body that I’m not completely trapped. That it won’t go on forever. And when I sit up and open my eyes, I realize it’s not the actual heat causing the panic, but my thoughts.

I remember this from boxing. Fear is a byproduct of the brain, not just the body. Our brains will tell us when we can’t go on longer. It has this threshold that it’s established. When we reach it, or go near it, it starts to tell us to stop or slow down. It doesn’t mean your body is breaking down, but you are pretty close — it’s like the empty gas light in your car. This is where some coaches push their athletes further, as it creates true physical breakthrough. But these are professional coaches. And there is such a thing as red-lining, and that is very real, and you have to be smart enough to know the difference. 

This rationale helps me. Though I am unbelievably cooked, and squirming in the dirt, I know this will end soon enough. I pray for my body to hang in. I picture myself standing outside, looking at the stars and gulping that fresh evening air. I begin to calm down. And with that, the drumming slows and the chanting stops. Hector thanks us for joining. He keeps it short. And with that, the ceremony ends.

The curtain is lifted. Cold air rushes in again; it’s the sweetest relief you can imagine. Fresh oxygen has to be the most satisfying fix on the entire planet. What can be better? I’ve made it, I thought, and I silently thank my body for pushing through. 

People exit one by one. Before leaving, you have to touch your forehead to the earth and give thanks for the wisdom and ceremony. As each person does this, I can see the steam billowing off their body. They’re backlit by the bright moonlight behind them, and it creates a milky white aura around them. I’d’ve taken a picture if I could. Then my turn comes. I say my thanks, touch the ground, and crawl back into the sweet fresh air of this magical, life-giving planet. 

Andrea greets me when I exit, and gives me a giant hug. “Happy birthday,” she says. “You’ve been reborn.”

*

Temazcal ceremonies happen in groups of four. For this crew, it was their third night out of four. So each person’s body was accustomed to the heat. I learned this afterward. “That was one of the hottest we’ve ever made it,” Andrea told me. “Most people ask to leave, you’re very brave for sitting through that entire ceremony. I’m very impressed.”

I got home that night, gulped a few quarts of water, then made some breakfast tacos. Afterward I only got about six hours of sleep, yet amazingly, I woke up the next morning and felt clear, calm, and energized — like I’d just slept for ten.  

And all I can say is I felt good. Even great. As I took the water taxi back to the mainland, I was a placid lake. All was perfect, all was great. I could take whatever came. Even the man on the boat who brought a full-size portable speaker and was blasting Bob Marley right next to me, he was perfect. The water under the boat felt soothing. The air was fresh. I felt complete.

Sweat is a cleanser, and the temazcal was a truly therapeutic ceremony. And though I felt so tremendous afterward, I’m not sure I’ll be coming back. I’d rather play a game of basketball instead.