3/19- Woke up in our hellish room, showered in the dripping, feeble shower, and went downstairs. Maryse felt sick, and wanted to go in the ocean for a swim, but she still didn’t have a bathing suit to replace the one we’d lost in Oaxaca, so we determined to find one in Trujillo. We got downstairs just as the one guest with a car was leaving, and there was just enough space for us and the Belgian couple who were also hitching a ride. Got to Trujillo, but all the swimsuits were way too small, despite Maryse’s ass being of a normal, or even slightly petite size. There were lots of fat women around, so something was not adding up. All the clothing store people were mean and impatient, beyond unhelpful, and all the shops were sweltering. All of the above combined to bring on a crisis for Maryse, who felt sick, fat, (due to the tiny suits) stressed, and generally miserable. In response, she regressed to about two years of emotional age, and generally started whining a lot, until I was like, “what is going on, baby?” at which point she realized that she was pretty upset, so we sat down with a beer for me and a soda for her and talked about it. She cried a bit and told me what was going on, we had a bit of a catharsis, and moved on again, somewhat clearer and refreshed.
Went down to the beach and walked out on the pier to watch the fishermen catching tiny little fish with just a weighted, baited line (no rod) and then sat in a nice, overpriced restaurant and had some fish while watching the ocean. While we ate, various vendors came in and hawked their wares; we bought Maryse some “Tommy Hilfiger” shades for $4 from a particularly skilled and persistent gentleman.
Finally found a thrift store on the way back out of town, and scored a passable swimsuit for Maryse. Task accomplished, we set out for Casa Depression.
Hitched two rides back home from Trujillo, both drivers refused payment, and just wanted a handshake. Cool. Arriving back at our room in the light of day, the squalor was too much even for me. I hate cleaning up, and am normally a bit messy, but I am not filthy. Seeing the pile of gecko shit behind the bed, I went nuts and started attacking the room, taking down the shitty, moldy drapes, sweeping the floor, removing the absolutely disgusting and useless “Mosquito net” that could have kept out a bat maybe, but not a mosquito and certainly not the wretched sand flies… All the while I was pondering why I once more found myself in the position of cleaning up someone else’s mess. I felt like I was doing something wrong in my life to keep getting in this position, but Maryse said that maybe it was my karmic service to the Universe or something. In any case, I was not having a good time, sweating and having gecko shit dust stuck all over me. Four hours later, we were still cleaning, but getting closer to having a room instead of a dungeon. Had to sweep and wash the walls, mop the floor, scare away the spiders… Truly unpleasant work. The entire time the evil sandflies were biting me, no matter how much baby oil and bug dope I slathered on.
Filthy, we went to take a shower, and no water came out. Perfect! We went down to the ocean to get clean, in a truly foul mood. Well, I was in a foul mood. Maryse takes such things in stride way more than I do. Nevertheless, even she was looking a bit grumpy, and she was still feeling sick.
Went in to the bar where Chaz had taken up her normal post, and asked if she’d like to train us, seeing as we were supposed to be running the bar for the next two busy weeks. She looked annoyed, and said she’d train us tomorrow morning. Whatever.
Maryse then developed a terrible headeche, and started sobbing. She said, “I feel squeezed! I can’t breathe, my head is being squished, I can’t understand anyone…” Especially after reading Lowen on early childhood traumas, I was sensitized to the concept, and said, “Hey, it sounds to me like what you’re talking about is birth trauma, can you see that?” It hadn’t occurred to her that that’s what it might be, but it made sense. We talked about childhood trauma for a while, and about how neither of us felt like we had been welcomed into the world in a way that really helped us to feel safe and secure as children. Right when we were in the middle of that conversation, Joel and Nindro, the Honduran kitchen guys, came out and asked what was wrong. In our lousy Spanish, we just told them that she was feeling bad. Both of them sympathized, and then, amazingly enough, they said in to Maryse in English, “You are welcome here.” “You are welcome.” This being precisely the thing that she had not heard and felt as a child, it brought on another round of crying. Maybe you had to be there, but it was a beautiful thing.
We went to bed, emotionally exhausted but with a much cleaner room at least.