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.”
