Soulful Travel: Mexico Pt 6 Finale - The End is the Beginning
Our Mexican adventure series comes to a conclusion with a kaleidoscope of rich experiences. We flashback to the end of episode 4, before the brush with the cartel, when my travel companions parted ways. I choose the call of the mystic path. Let’s rewind to this soul-stirring detour and then fast-forward because aren't all endings, simply new beginnings...
Our Mexican adventure has had 5 episodes (catch up here) and here is a flashback. Back in episode 4, we left off with emotional turbulence, sending us hurling in different directions to find refuge and recharge our senses. My go-to remedies? Retreating into stillness—picture a Maharaja draped in silk pillows—or diving into adventures where the wind rushes past my face. That day, I felt a pull toward altitude.
Photo of the Coast by Mazunte by J | I mage of Sierra Maestra Mountains, Mexico
Leaving the steamy beaches and Mazunte’s rustic streets, we set off in our no-AC car, waving goodbye to palm-dotted farms. Within an hour, it was as if God had turned on the central air, and by hour two, we were layering winter coats over our shorts.
Winding through the mountain pass, we curved along ridgelines, zooming past rare, scattered houses clinging to cliff sides. As the sun began tucking behind the peaks and mist replaced its radiance, it became clear—we had entered a whole new world.
The narrow passageways soon widened just enough to contain San José, a tiny town seemingly cradled in the palm of God’s hand, high above the clouds.
Photo of Sierra Mountains by Gabriel Tovar | Image of Hotel | Photo in San José by J
A Night Among the Stars
Seeking warmth, we checked into a “fancy” forest hotel—only to find a sunken bed, a stubborn chimney, and cold water. Folded like a pretzel in six inches of bathwater, laughter became our only heat. But dinner saved the day. Beneath starlit skies, a 10-year-old waiter stole my heart, serving wine and his mother’s fresh pasta as we shared family tales perched on a hilltop.
Curious about the local culture, we asked his mother for adventure ideas. She offered two options the area was famous for: a spiritually guided quest with magic mushrooms or Temazcales (sweat lodges). Intrigued by the latter, we asked if she knew any wise elder women who could host us.
She vaguely recalled one but couldn’t remember her name. Still, the seed was planted, and our hearts were set on finding her.
Photo of Hotel Alba | Selfie by Yalo | Photo of breakfast by J
Aerial image of San José, Oaxaca, Mexico | Photo of Janelle in San José by Yalo
A Journey to San Pedro
The next morning, we descended from our nest in the trees, fueled by fresh fruit and stories exchanged with a lovely young Mexican couple. Before continuing our search for the wise woman, we wandered through town to buy warmer clothes for the chilly nights. We hopped from one street vendor to another, supporting as many sweet ladies as we could—one wool sock from her, one scarf from the next. Our hearts felt both elated and heavy as each vendor beamed with gratitude over small earnings from their hand-sewn goods.
Ready with warm hearts and a mushroom-patterned hat too cute to pass up, we continued onward. No one in town seemed to know the wise woman. We paused for a restroom break at a roadside stop, and as we were leaving, I asked another girl. She leaned in and gently whispered, as if sharing a secret—Abuela Braulia vive en el próximo pueblo (Grandmother Braulia lives in the next town over).
We drove on, and the mountain ridge opened to reveal San Pedro—a nearby town brimming with vibrant, authentic expression.
Photos of San José by J
We parked in the tiny center plaza surrounded by children playing ball, a bright green mini mart, a church, and a market likely the same since the 1900s. We parked before a lovingly decorated hut and asked the shop keeper, who gave us a general direction. Down this street, turn left…past the houses...Later, we discovered just around the bend, an artist covering the streets in giant murals who's images leaped from the walls, like prayers of hope at the heart of this town.
We meandered through increasingly narrowing passageways, past humble dwellings, and to where we estimated we might find this abuela.
My friend gently shouted towards the dwelling from the sidewalk: (¡Buenos días! ¿Se encuentra Señora Braulia? Just then, a little petite elder lady appeared. Her spirit felt familiar. This stranger felt like my own madrina (godmother).
My godmother, Caridad González, was a Cuban woman of deep faith who never had children of her own but embraced our family as if we were her own. When my grandfather arrived in this country—blind and alone with two small children—she became our family’s angel. Volunteering through her church, she helped raise my mother and uncle, offering them love and stability when they needed it most.
Years later, she poured that same love into my brother and me, nurturing us with abundance until her own angels called her away—light spilling into the room as she passed.
Her warmth and wisdom continue to resonate with me, and in this remote mountain village, I felt that same energy all around me.
Her warmth and wisdom resonate with me still, and I felt that same energy here, in this remote mountain village..
Photo of Abuela Braulia in her home with a painting of her grandmother behind her by J
A Sanctuary of Peace
Warmth and strength of faith radiated from Abuela Braulia. She invited us to stay the night, and her son led us just 20 steps away, across the alleyway. The orange clay path guided us to a small lot with two adobe cabins, a courtyard, and a Temazcal built by locals. Surrounded by modest homes, it felt like an oasis—I was immediately swept with a sense of peace.
I had sought comfort in a fancy hotel, but here, in this humble setting, the energy exuded a comfort that seeped into my bones and touched my soul. It was not just grounding—it radiated a frequency that felt magnetic, an energy that pulled us into these grounds, not just devoted but drenched in sacred prayers.
Grins overtook our faces—it felt like divine synchronicity to have landed in this dot on the map. Abuela Braulia had her son begin preparing the Temazcal as we settled in, changed for our steamy adventure, and prepared for the lessons whispering to us.
Once the hot stones were ready, Abuela Braulia joined us, and we stepped into the small, warm adobe dome. Her son carefully heated volcanic stones and river rocks in a cauldron, placing them inside by getting down on his knees and using a shovel to bring them in while not entering himself to honor the sacred space and the purity of us women fully present for the ceremony.
Abuela Braulia would reach into a bucket of water beside us and with cupped handfuls gently ladle it over the stones, each splash releasing thick, steamy clouds that wrapped around us, filling the space with a dense, cleansing warmth. She'd shared words of wisdom and invite us to take turns cupping the water and rizzling it on the stones while sharing our own calls to prayer.
The Temazcal, a traditional sweat lodge, has roots stretching back to the pre-Hispanic era among the Indigenous peoples of Mesoamerica. In towns like San Pedro, Mexico, the Temazcal ceremony continues as a powerful healing ritual that purifies the body, mind, and spirit, reconnecting participants to the earth and cycles of life. Built from adobe or stone, the small dome-like structure represents the womb of Mother Earth, offering participants a space for deep purification.
Photos of the Temazcal by J
Doorways Through Time Abuela Braulia led us inside, crouching down in her simple cloth dress as she settled onto a small wooden stump. Her petite, frail figure contrasted with the strength in her penetrating gaze, which caught the fading light of dusk. She began by pouring water over the hot stones. As crackling sounds filled the space and the first hints of mist rose, she leaned in, almost as if sharing a secret, and explained that the ritual follows four stages—each a doorway honoring different phases of life.