The Sacred Womyn's Camp and Mayan Adventure

The Sacred Womyn’s Camp and Mayan Adventure

Plan was to help my Camino friend, Nash, with her dream of creating an eco-tourism center in the Mayan jungle near Valleoidad. Then two weeks before leaving, Sharon, founder of the Green Beautiful Foundation begs me to come to Australia to be a guest speaker at the upcoming Blue Flame Dreaming festival and build a hobbit house at the Sacred Womyn’s Camp near Byron bay, New South Wales.

The Sacred Womyn’s Camp is a collection of tents in the bush surrounding a tarp-covered kitchen area with couches around a sacred fire burning in the centre. It is home to Lois Cook, the eldest surviving member of the local aboriginal tribe and designated as Custodian of Country. There were half a dozen people living there, including visiting elders from across the country who were going to speak at the festival. The oppressive 40c heat, jet-lag and worries of how I was going to build a house in four weeks with no apparent tools or help had me asking myself - ‘why did I let myself get talked into this’. From my Celtic viewpoint, I was barefoot in snake city and couldn’t tell whether the spider darting around my tent was poisonous or not.

I sat outside the local radio studio waiting to be interviewed. “This is 99.1 Byron Bay …facted up radio” came over the speaker. The surfer twang made it sound rude and I smiled. The host was disappointed that I didn’t have hairy feet, other than that, it went well and a handful of enthusiastic volunteers appeared the next day along with an excavator. I had underestimated Lois’s resourcefulness.

The site was low lying scrub bush bordered by tea trees, dense jungle separated us from the pounding surf. Dead cyprus trees were felled and logged out with a small SUV. A venomous red bellied black snake slithered out from a rotten stump as I wrapped the chain around a log. Sand from the thirty-foot wide excavation was shovelled into horse feed bags, these were then placed on the wall and pounded rigid. Despite no shade and relentless heat, the building slowly took shape. At lunchtime and in the evening, we’d go to nearby Lennox to plunge into the ocean and then cross the road to wallow in the warm water of the tea tree lake. Floating in the restorative water the Elders would generously answer my questions. Some things I could understand, but I was an outsider looking in and could only appreciate that their grasp of the universe that was way beyond me.  

The Blue Flame Dreaming festival was three days of music, dance and lectures about indigenous culture and the cosmic shift in consciousness. It took place at the ultra-modern Byron Bay community theatre. My contribution was less than noteworthy. I’m center stage with my image projected onto a huge screen behind me. I nonchalantly click the PowerPoint controller, then frantically stab at it unleashing my inner Mr. Bean. My hobbit house had been lost in the ether.

We came close to getting it built, but minor setbacks slowed construction, not least because of a bush fire on the final weekend. We had to pack everything up and evacuate the site overnight. The next day I stayed at the camp while the others took the tents down and ferried the gear back to camp. This was my first experience fighting a bush fire and I suspect my attire of sandals, shorts and a straw hat would not have met with approval, however, I did use my spade to good effect. I quickly learnt to avoid the burning tea trees which would randomly crash in any direction.

I think that I gained more from the experience than they did from the construction and came away with a smile when told we’d built it right on a song line. It’s now part of the never-ending story.

The next stop was Valleoidad, a colonial town in the Yucatan. My friend Nash’s property was in a small Mayan village deep in the jungle. We stayed for a week with the family next door, slept in hammocks and lived on beans and tortillas. Nash’s house was three-quarters built and we worked on the roof and framing the door and windows. I quickly realized how difficult it is for people in less affluent countries to improve their lives. Low wages, no scavenging of free construction materials or even topsoil for growing food. We returned to Valleoidad were Nash was the receptionist at a boutique hotel. In the evening I would chat to Basilio at the bar, sipping margaritas with my Spotify playlist coming through the PA system. Buddy Guy with Otis Spann tickling the ivories never sounded so good.

I was watering the garden at Nash’s house on a sunday morning when I noticed lycra-clad runners going past. I felt like a jog, so I followed them. After a kilometer or two and close to the town center, I was alarmingly alone in the middle of an empty street lined with cheering spectators. The side streets were sealed off by police cars, a motor-cycle cop on a huge Harley pulls out in front of me and escorts me towards a giant inflated triumphal arch in the town square. The runners ahead are struggling, I quicken my pace and pass them.  The crowd roars encouragement and I go through the arch arms aloft to the deafening boom of a massed drum band. A beautiful girl steps down from the podium and tries to place a medal around my neck. I graciously decline, “No gracias, soy canadiense.”