My past life mourning sickness.

I got off the bus and nearly fell over with total dizziness; the heat was back to intense ozone vacant levels. The roads are bendy and nauseating, especially if you sit in the isles seats, this time it was my turn NOT to have a window seat, curses! This journey felt like I was at Alton Towers on the same ride for a painful five-hour stretch after having devoured a massive Sunday lunch with cream based pudding for afters.


We had researched online through tripadvisor.com a place to stay near the old ruins in Palenque, as we drove closer to the ruins I felt sicker and sicker, this was not just motion sickness, I listened to it and it sounded like fear. The taxi dropped us off in the middle of the jungle ‘El Panchan’ where groups of delightful cabanas housed many budget travellers who were all now looking right at the new kids in town. The beautiful pool shown online had been drained, roughly about 23 years ago by the looks of its decay and there were no bricks in the hotel walls either. Stu was shown a shack that looked like my beloved old garden shed with mattresses that certain clientel that reside within stinking doss houses in west London would have turned their noses up at. This was not right, I have stayed at places like this before and its been fine, when completely drunk but this time I felt very anxious and could not explain my self at all, my vibes were bad. I have learnt to listen to my vibes over the years, which have always turned out correct when some things have been akimbo.



So we called another cab and went to La Canada area where most hotels are located 2.5km away from the ruins, this is at the end of the main road of Palenque, which has been described as a one-horse town. I felt a little better after some simple food, but then as the night went on it all went horribly wrong. God, was I glad I listened to my bad vibes and changed locations as I vomited every microcosm of ingested food I’d had over this last weekend, including visibly undigested chunks of pizza and random husks of sweet corn, which I didn’t actually remember having any on my classic Hawaiian. Full on D&V commenced, Stu slept soundly throughout; in his defence the AC was on full throttle spitting out freezing drops of hale stones that was meant to protect us from the humid heat, it sliced through sleeping skin and woshed ice particals at an ear splitting decibel. I always wear earplugs, as I hate any noise at night, which in Mexico is hard to avoid, so the sound of myself vomiting was like deep sea divers hear inside their bell jar helmets as they are screaming their last breaths when they see Jaws appear in front of them. This went on all night…alone. Mopping my own poorly sweating brow, as my devoted man slept on. When he woke up I looked at him like I’d just given birth to quads, with ’What?’ looking right back at me. Sunday I spent around 37 hours in a sleep induced coma, with intermittent belches and vomiting along with a temperature of 38.7, I didn’t even notice Stu come and go all day long. I ate nothing as it just came back up again, even my anti sickness pills found their way back up which was a total waste. Deep down, if im honest I just didn’t want to go to the ruins, and I didn’t understand why I was stalling for time.



The next day I had to go see these bloody ruins. I was feeling like a weak female and again the anxiousness arose within. We got past the main gates and I was pent up like a kid having its first MMR jabs. It costs 20 pesos at the first gates and then another 45 pesos at the main gates and there is really no need to pay $45 USD for a tour guide that try jumping you the minute your feet hit sacred soil, its cheaper too eaves drop on someone else’s guides. And the spare guides inside are quite happy to tell you in a variety of languages. I do feel that this excessive amount for a tour guide should really go towards the excavation costs to reveal more of the ruins as only 38 buildings have been excavated out of an estimated 500 that’s still under all the thick jungles that surrounds this impressive site, some of the enormous trees could infact still be covering huge temples and a wealth of ancient history beneath. It is over whelming when inside the site, but for me it was proving more over whelming on a more psychic level. This has never happened too me to such great degrees. Maybe all this clearing stuff ive been doing has opened up my charkras. Not trying to sound too kooky I was certainly having a Derek Acorah moment and really picking up on snippets of residual psychic energies from this place, amateurishly channelling, I felt I was hiding behind some bloody battle, I could hear distant screams and saw smoke, it felt like everyone I knew was dead, I was mourning them all, looking around after a great battle had passed, the time period I could not say I need to do some research.... although the history of what actually happened here is not clearly documented, no one really knows, something Mr. Acorah could maybe clear up over a couple of night time vigils, or I should go see a hypnotist. The atmosphere is thick with history that needs to be told.



I was still feeling very out of balance, I turned a corner and saw this one building I keep calling ‘the house’ but its real title is ‘The temple of the foliated cross’, built around 690AD it looked like two massive key holes, upon a crumbling hill. Its front has decayed and it’s a proper jaw opening ruin. But my gut was churning inside with strong kinship feelings. I sat under the protection of a slim tree and looked up at it for ages, Stu briskly running up and down everything else, he took some great pictures with his new camera and I must say he is now getting the artistic eye. I slowly hiked to the top of this temple with the mindful pace of being in mourning. I felt like I knew the space. It held significance but I cannot explain it’s meaning. Today I am 21st century soul girl with full on English ego and blurred higher self past life memories. Note to self: must dig out my Paul McKenna tapes, which may help the unravelling.



I spent the rest of the time there floating around the old ruins completely within my self, blurred around the edges, dizzy, battling with my fluffy flicking hair thanks to the damp humidity, a Bonny Tyler moment consumed me.
It was not until we left Palenque later that day on another night bus arriving in a place named Tulum, Yacatan that I saw one particular picture Stu took on the roof of one of the ruins in Palenque. The scull pictured is exactly the image I saw in the bus window at 4am on our way to San Cristobel (previous blog). A sign, a prediction, a part of my past resurfacing, what the hell does it all mean?



Tulum is another ancient region of Yacatan where there are more damn ruins to sight see, but the plus side for me is it sits beautifully on the idyllic Caribbean Sea. It is certainly anorak session as it is chucking it down with torrential rain right now, has been for a few days. I have all reduced baggage balanced on a double bed including boyfriend and me as the rain is coming in through the doors; this place is our last port of call in Mexico sob, boooo!!
(As our visa runs out on 9 days time)


I did hear that a real Mayan Shaman lives right next door to our beach hut

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