Day One: Four Doors, Red Stones and Two Hitchhikers

With a bit of a delayed flight, I landed in Cancún around 7:30 p.m. The flight wasn’t at full capacity, and as I made my way toward la migración, I braced myself for the ridiculous lineups I’ve experienced during winter visits to this part of Mexico.

Instead, there were two couples ahead of me.

I was through in minutes, moving through immigration like a hot knife through butter.

Outside, John was just pulling up. We climbed in and immediately went in search of food to fill the fridge before heading toward our first rental, tucked away outside Akumal.

Finding the house was an adventure in itself. It must have taken us more than an hour to finally locate it. We entered through a gated community 😬, apparently designed for golfers 🥱, and followed a serpentine road winding through tropical plants and bamboo fences until, at the very end, we found a little pool hidden away from everything.

We were finally home for the first four days.

It had been a long day. I found my room, discovered a plush bed, and fell asleep almost instantly, hoping that somewhere between sleep and dreams, my mind would begin imagining the flavours the first full day would bring.

As has become my ritual, Day One had very few plans.

But the one thing on the itinerary mattered.

An ancient ceremony.

The temazcal.

The practice is one of the oldest and most enduring traditions of Mesoamerica, with evidence reaching back to the Preclassic period. For generations, the temazcal has been a place of purification, transition and renewal.

The one we entered looked almost like a small stone-and-cement igloo, its rounded body sitting quietly at the edge of the forest. In front of it was the ceremonial ground, simple and welcoming, with an altar where plants and offerings had been placed.

A few steps farther, perfectly aligned with the entrance, was the fire.

The abuelas, the volcanic stones, were glowing red from the heat.

We prepared for the ceremony with Juan and Elena, two gentle, kind people who seemed to radiate the particular peace of those who have learned to live close to the land. They worked together with a quiet harmony that needed no explanation.

Elena led the ceremony.

Juan tended the fire and carried the glowing stones to the temazcal, bringing them inside with the calm precision of someone who has been doing this for more than three decades.

Then the doors began.

Four doors.

Four directions.

Four elements.

Each opening became its own passage through the ceremony. Fire, water, earth and wind. Each one asking something different of us. To feel. To release. To remember. To make room.

Inside the darkness, the world outside disappeared.

There was only the circle, the heat, the stones and the voices.

The singing began softly, then grew. The sound of our voices seemed to vibrate through the small space, bouncing from one body to another until it no longer felt like individual voices at all. It became one vibration, one breath, one living thing moving around the circle.

Then came the water.

Elena poured it over the abuelas, and the stones answered with a sudden hiss as steam rose into the darkness. Water meeting fire. Fire becoming vapour. The air becoming thick with heat and scent.

Herbs, spices and resins were added to the stones, and the aromatic vapour wrapped itself around us. Every breath carried something earthy, green, smoky and ancient. The scent seemed to settle not only in my lungs but somewhere deeper, in that strange place where memory and emotion meet.

The four doors opened and closed.

We sang. We breathed. We sweated. (Oh so much!) We let go.

There was something profoundly humbling about sitting in the darkness of that little earth womb while the forest carried on outside, completely indifferent to whatever transformation was taking place inside. The thunder rumbling without end joining us in our ceremony.

And somehow, that was exactly what I needed.

It felt like a release.

A clearing.

A perfect way to begin three weeks of wandering by letting go of what I no longer needed before filling myself with beautiful places, new memories, extraordinary food and whatever else this journey has decided to put in my path.

When it was over, John drove me back toward the house, an hour and a half up the coast.

And somewhere along the way, we discovered that we had acquired passengers.

Two young praying mantises had apparently decided that the back window of our car was an excellent place to hitch a ride.

They held on for dear life as we travelled down the highway.

Perhaps they wanted to see the city. Perhaps they simply needed a lift.

Either way, I suppose every great journey needs a few unexpected travelling companions.

By the time we arrived home, the ceremonial work was still humming somewhere beneath my skin.

So tomorrow, I plan to let it continue.

No grand plans. No rushing. Just a quiet day to allow everything to settle. Pool. Food. Naps.

Yes.

NapS.

After all, I have three weeks to get somewhere.

There is absolutely no reason to hurry.