Lisa Schumaier

As a features reporter for the Wildcat, my job is to uncover exciting events that college students should go to. For the past year, I have been able to experience a city that is hip and truly caters to the college population and all its different sub-cultures. Since Tucson has so much character, I have also met some shady folks and, believe it or not, followed them to some sketchy proceedings. This time, my article is about what not to do in Tucson. Or rather, it is about events not recommended as being particularly artistic or cultural, but damaging and confusing to a receptive psyche.

If you call them, they will come.

A while ago, I met this girl at a bookbinding circle that lived on a dusty ranch outside of Tucson. She looked sweet in overalls with a thimble on her forefinger. She was from Oberlin College, took a year off to intern at an organic farm, slept in a school bus, and had a shaved head. I agreed to meet up with her and some friends that night to take part in a "sweat." For those unfamiliar to a "sweat" as I was, it involves a bunch of people crowding in a sweat lodge to purge toxins from your body as well as your soul. There was something about this girl that made me feel inhibited and ordinary and to counter this feeling, I went.

When in doubt, keep your underwear on.

Looking back, I was expecting a YMCA for the new-aged. But when we arrived, Enya was not playing in the locker room or any room, because this was some man's backyard. As far as the tiled huts I imagined, the sweat lodge was more like a muddy lean-to with a plywood door. To give the engineer some credit, I am sure it took more shape in the sunlight. My new friend took me to one of the benches that bordered the privacy fence and we undressed our toxic bodies. A cubbyhole would have been nice but there was not a moment of trepidation when I removed my underwear and flung it on the branch of a mesquite tree. Though there should have been, considering the host for the sweat that night had hers on. It was an all women sweat but she must have known something about sweaty vaginas on wooden benches that made her feel the need to have some fruit-of-the-loom protection.

I needed a mantra or something to chant but instead I became more of an observer than a participator. Inside it felt like a multi-leveled cauldron. Old women with long whiskered hair rocked back and forth. One lady appeared to be in a trance, squealing inaudible words and clawing her belly button. She must have had a lot of pollutants festering in her body. The host threw water on the hot rocks with a wooden ladle but the spiritual steam was just not doing it for me. I started to worry about catching crabs from the seats. They teach you about safe sex but not safe sweat. I sat on my hands and squeezed my buttocks trying to seal off whatever I could. Maybe the heat kills any bacteria like when you cook chicken, but this was not worth an STD. Still, not wanting to insult any of these perspiring people or my new friend, I tried to give the allusion that I was sitting by squatting; but soon my muscles were aching and if I lost any more fluid I was afraid that I would pass out on the floor, mouth open, in a toxic potion.

Outside, the yard was an exhibitionist's lounge. There was a pool, hammocks, and even a tattered massage table next to a barbeque pit. My friend tells me that Sunday is family day. Parents bring their unknowing children to be naked and sweaty with other parents and unknowing children. But family day is in broad daylight and they probably bring those Styrofoam noodles and grill veggie dogs while the trees are adorned with tie-dyed shirts and broomstick skirts. Underwear is so abundant on the branches it starts to photosynthesize and everyone is happy and contaminate-free. I was respectful and emerged from the sweat lodge to warn others. This is probably not what the Native Americans had in mind when they partook in sweats when this man turned his backyard into a makeshift reservation for white people who are not satisfied with yoga anymore. I hear somebody with authority closed it down, probably because the sweat lodge did not meet code or maybe neighbors complained that the sweat was leaking into their yards and killing their gardens. Maybe it just went more underground. Anyway, I do not recommend this form of entertainment if someone invites you. The morning-after thoughts are too overwhelming and conversation would be very awkward if you ever ran into someone from the sweat on Fourth Avenue.