Imagine this scene: A warm sunny beach. On the beach, a palapa. Under the shade, two men. One, sitting on a white picnic chair, his leg propped on a bench. The other, a younger man, wearing a bathing suit, is hovering over the seated man, chanting.
Can you tell what is going on? Even Carlos Castañeda would not guess this to be an Indian healing ritual, yet that was precisely what I was going through.
Earlier that morning, as I jogged along the coast of La Manzanilla, two fishermen struggled to push their boat into the water. They gladly accepted my help, and with our combined effort, the boat budged. Somehow, in that spurt of heavy pushing I twisted my left foot. I ignored the pain until the boat was in the waves, but when I tried to resume the run, I yelped in pain and stopped. I could not put any weight on the front of my foot. As I limped in agony back to the campground, a debate ensued between Realist I, and Optimist I.
'This burning pain inside is familiar,' said Realist I, 'it was the same when you broke the right foot.'
'You only twisted the foot,' Optimist I reminded soothingly, 'it may be just a sprain.'
'Really?' scoffed Realist I, 'how about your son Ofer who broke a couple of bones in his foot by "only" twisting it?'
'Well,' smiled Optimist I, 'at least you can't feel bad about your bones becoming brittle with age.'
'It really doesn't matter,' Realist I concluded, 'in both cases the treatment is the same: Elevation, Ice, and Rest.' Realist I always has the last word.
Diagnosis and method of treatment concluded, Realist began thinking about the hassles of travel with a broken foot.
'It's not that bad,' Optimist interrupted, 'Ofer ran twenty miles on his broken foot.'
'That's not very comforting,' frowned Realist 'I don't like pain.'
I was in a dark mood when I returned to the sleeping campground. I found a crooked branch and used it to aid my mobility. One by one, the other campers emerged from their RVs and offered their help, advice, or sympathy. Among the last to wake was Rodolfo.
Rodolfo and Elena, a pretty blond from Columbia, occupied the tent next to ours. He was in his forties, handsome and in good shape. The sprinkle of grey in his black hair made him appear distinguished even in a bathing suit. He was gentle and spoke softly. I liked him. He was also an apprentice Curador, or Shaman. The other day, as we leisurely passed the time under the shady palapa, he briefly talked about his life. His mother introduced him into the Peyote culture. With her, he attended the religious ceremonies conducted by shamans, and usually held in the remote mountain villages of Mexico. Peyote, a hallucinogenic plant which is legally available to the shamans is administered in the ceremony. Under the influence of Peyote, participants in the ceremony gain access to the spirit world, and can have meaningful spiritual visions. The experience provided Rodolfo with increased self-understanding and peace. He began accompanying the village Shamans on their journeys. Eventually, after consulting with the spirits, his mentor concluded that Rodolfo is ready to heal others, and he started to practice. He admits there is still much he needs to learn. For example, he is not yet ready to administer Peyote. I expressed my interest, and he agreed that upon my return to Mexico, I could join him in a Peyote ritual.
Rodolfo approached and inquired into my situation. I provided my sad tale and self-diagnosis.
"I can't fix bones," he said, "but maybe I can do something good."
"Thanks, but later, when I am done here." I said, pointing at the vegetables I was peeling for the morning salad. I was not ready for a spiritual process, especially one administered by a camping friend.
After breakfast and with the pain not subsiding, I concluded that I have nothing to loose. I walked up to his hammock and stirred him from a morning nap. We settled in the shade, me on the plastic chair. He bent over my leg and held my foot with both hands.
I suppressed a scream of pain.
"Breathe, relax," he said as he pressed my swollen foot.
I tried to follow his instruction by using my meditation training.
His strong fingers explored the pressure points along my leg. He explained something about Energy Meridians. The terms sounded familiar. As he kept working, my body slowly learned to trust his hands. The sensation was strong, sometimes painful, but always benign. I became calmer, my breathing slowed, and despite the pain in some of the pressure points, I could follow his fingers tracing the energy paths in my leg.
"The left side is your emotional, spiritual side." he explained, "Something has weakened it, and I would like to find that cause."
His hands kept going over my body. "It was not the spirits of Mexico that caused this injury." he said quietly, "You accepted our country, and it has accepted you."
I liked that conclusion.
"I am trying to feel around us." he said, his eyes scanning our surroundings, his hands not loosing touch with my leg, "I do not sense any ill will. I don't think it is someone in this campground"
At times, he would close his eyes in concentration as if waiting for an answer. "It could be someone far away," he speculated, "you will have to find the person that is angry with you and ask for forgiveness." He then proceeded to massage my neck and shoulders.
After a while, Rodolfo stopped the acupressure and sat next to my foot. His demeanor became solemn. He stopped talking, and his eyes, dark and deep, focused on some far horizon. He placed his hand on my foot and started chanting. He seemed immersed in a universe composed only of him and the space around my ailing foot. His chant was melodious and soothing. As he chanted, his voice became deeper and it drew me into a similar focus. I no longer felt awkward. The bustling campground faded, the uncomfortable chair disappeared, and it was just him and I, suspended in a bubble of time. He placed both hands over my leg without touching it, and I could feel the connection. The chanting became a wordless humming. He passed his hands above my leg with long slow strokes that started at the knee and ended at the tips of my toes. As he completed each stroke, he gathered something invisible into his hands, then brought them towards his mouth, extended his fingers, and audibly blew air over his palms.
"We Curadores are like sponges," he explained, "We take in the bad energy, but then we have to get rid of it. Some spit it out, I blow it out."
The chanting and cleansing continued for a while, then the ritual ended, and I slowly came back to the palapa. Rodolfo and I hugged, and I got up. I still could not step on my foot, but my overall feeling was radically different. A dark night, a masked Shaman shrouded in smoke, the sound of rattles and drums would have been interesting to witness, but were not essential for the special experience I just completed. I felt well. Sprained or broken, did not matter. I knew I will manage. We exchanged emails, hugged again, and promised to meet each other in the fall.
Epilogue
A couple of days later, I was well enough to drive to Puerto Vallarta where I bought a pair of crutches and discarded the old branch. I saw the broken bone in the X-Ray film, so I also purchased an orthopedic boot. On crutches, I manage fine, yet I do not understand how Ofer ran twenty miles on a broken foot.
