'It's all good, bro.' Such were the relentless musings of my week-long host. But no, in fact, it was not all good. You lied to me about the price. The food tastes like dog shit. My wife and I have been asked to sleep under a guava tree. Your dime store spiritual pretensions are wearing exceedingly thin, and on the last night, you will try to steal even more money from our happy little group. So no, expatriate jungle man, it's not all good. In fact, it is all falsely optimistic, pseudo-spiritual nonsense of the perpetually entitled, perpetually un-committed. That is what it all is. Bro.

When I first talked to your mom, she gave me the shpeel. It was nice and thick. Ideal spot for an intensive. Saving the rainforest and that. Beautiful space. Under the canopy of the jungle. Edged by a white sand beach. Gourmet vegetarian food. Private accommodation for me and the wife. Yoga room with a view. Ample privacy. Etc. Some of it was true, all of it appealing, and though there wasn't enough time to promote it, really, I jumped in anyway. Spontaneity always brings something good, I figured. Plus it sounded like your good works could use a little cash boost. So we negotiate a price.

Three weeks later you change the price. After promotions had already been printed. After people had already committed. I can't remember the reason now. They're all starting to bleed into one. But it was something about a misunderstanding. And though money will now be lost for the work, I'm still locked in. Irresponsible to cancel. Spontaneity, the rainforest, and all that. No worries. We'll make it work.

When we arrive, I get the first true sniff of something askew. You're all fidgety and squirms. Eyes like a ferret. Definitely not enough rooms for the privacy promised. And when I try to pin you down to discuss, you parry me away with vague assurances in reprimanding tones as you skit out the door frowning at my suburban concern. I recoil for the moment, decide to wait, to check my instincts, to defer to the local glide, and sit my weary bones on the warm sand. But somewhere I know that in an hour or two, the conversation I fear will come. You descend from a 'meeting' with your 'staff', which is your mother, sister, and brother, and inform me of the plan. Clients names are listed, rooms assigned, list complete.

I frown. 'And where will the wife and I stay?'

'You'll camp, bro.'

'I don't want to camp.'

'We've had upper class New Yorkers camp here.'

Confused at the relevance, I frown and repeat, 'I don't want to camp.'

Undeterred, you lead me down the path to the guava tree, underneath which lies a couple pallets, a mattress, and a canvass covering for the rain that will come in droves every night. You are convinced I will change my mind.

'Listen, I love to camp. We love to camp. But I didn't come down here to camp.'

Your eyes flash, and the voice turns dire, 'How much are you paying to stay here?'

'The price you told me group leaders should pay.'

'And you think that entitles you to your own room?'

'I don't think anything. That's what I was told.'

'This is a shared accommodation place. Not everyone can have their own room.'

'I appreciate that now that I'm down here, but that's not what I was told.'

'So your expectations have let you down. Maybe you should own your expectations.'

Now it's apparently on me. The conflict has begun. I'm no good at conflict. I always think of the good come-backs hours later. Conflict wasn't my role in the family. I was supposed to add the sweetness, to cool down the emotional volatility of my sisters and mother. I'm no good at this, so all I can offer is, 'Excuse me?'

'Let me ask you a frank question. You are a yoga teacher. This,' and here you gesture around the guava tree, the pallets, the mattress, 'this is all external. This is just the outer frame, the illusion. How can this external realm be creating your internal turmoil. Isn't this what you study? Take life as it comes, bro.'

Somewhere deep and hidden in my suddenly clumsy thoughts I know you are insane. But I can't wrap my mouth around the right words. I told you, I'm no good at this. So I just agree to share a room. No problem. We'll make it work.

The first couple of days, before the clients arrive, I'm psyched to eat the rice and beans. Every meal. But I start to wonder if that's the plan for the following week. For the people who have paid an outrageous sum of money to come down to this traditionally affordable, even cheap, locale. Your poor 'chef', a beautiful local woman with beautiful dark skin, looked at me like I was crazy when I said I didn't eat eggs. Gourmet vegetarian cooking is what we were sold. I'm quite sure she has never made a vegetarian meal in her life. Except for rice and beans. Which is more of a half meal than a vegetarian meal. But this is what we get for breakfast on the first day of the retreat. It is what we get for lunch, plus some odd reconstituted isolated soy protein that tastes something between rubber and canned dog food topped with soy sauce. For dinner, do you remember this, we get that day's lunch, transferred to a different bowl, topped with a couple raw tomatoes and slices of raw onion. Saturated with another round of soy sauce.

The wife, an infinitely better judge of character than me, who knew this was all coming from 10 seconds of an overhead voice mail left by your mother weeks before the trip, and I look at each other gravely over the tops of our bowls. The clients smile and push their gourmet vegetarian food around their plates. And you walk over. Somewhere in that head you know this is a joke. In fact, you are running an interference mission. One of many you will run. Big smile, shifty feet, 'How was your first day in paradise?'

Polite nods. Even a smile or two.

You spread your arms, 'Can you believe the beach. Palm trees and jungle wedged up against the water. Amazing waves, no?'

Yeah, we saw. More nods and polite mumbles.

Then finally to the point you ask, 'How's the food?'

Silence.

Until someone not so shy offers, 'Not that good, actually.'

Then you do the Dr. Jeckyl turn. Words come flying out quick and hard. 'Yeah, well, she's doing the best she can. Work in progress. You should bless the food in front of you. People around the world don't even have enough food to eat. Take life as it comes, bro. Bless what you've got.' Then a quick turn and you're gone. Out the door and up to your room.

The group, which is otherwise settling into a chilled out yoga and beach glaze, look at each other with amused shock. I, in contrast, am horrified. And when the volatility subsides, I go to your mother. In my best diplomatic tone, I suggest that the food situation is unacceptable. I try to make suggestions. Some fried yucca perhaps. An avocado. I even try to make a shopping list with one of the 'staff' to inspire some new menu ideas. But I am cut off. Sharply and without hesitation.

Your mother, with grave sincerity and barely concealed contempt, replies, 'My dear friend, this is dominant world paradigm thinking, your mind is caged by the prevalent world view. When someone puts a plate of food in front of you, your only duty is to bless that food. Not to complain,' and here she points a spear of a finger at me and miraculously repeats what you had just said, 'there are people in the world who don't have enough to eat. Bless the food you are given. We are doing the best we can. You've got to walk the walk, not just talk the talk.' She is now shaking with anger.

So again, it is on me. But I told you, I'm no good at this. What I should do is now hand her half the money I promised to pay, and when you both complain, I will say with reprimanding tones that you should be happy with what you get, that there are people in the world, in fact there are people in your kitchen working for you, who have almost no money. Bless what has been given, and be thankful. But I don't. That would be dishonest. It is not the relationship we agreed to. So I raise my eyebrows, sigh, repeat my concerns, and quickly scramble to find a way to make this all work on the fly.

Meanwhile, off in the yoga quarters, small miracles are happening. Your engineer and architect, well chosen it has to be said, have indeed managed to build a breathtaking structure, with magnificent views. Elbows and knees are opening. Legs and arms extending. Tight configurations bound deep in the hips are beginning to unravel. Long lost electrical currents reassemble in the circuitry of the nerves. And not only are legs and arms long, they are strong, and the carriage they provide is now buoyant, the body light. Awareness is bled to that outermost layer of skin, that film separating what the mind has deemed inside and outside, but it is becoming increasingly thin. A vapor, really. And minds are having to renegotiate what is in and out. What is possible and not. And somehow, this makes the sound of the birds sweeter. The fragrance of the jungle closer. The waves more symphonic. Logical even. And two strangers, from different worlds, have fallen in love. It makes us all smile. They are like a pot of fresh sunflowers in the middle of the room. Which makes all of us almost forget the chaos and wake of your whims.

But you won't let us. You are like the tide. You just keep coming back. Undeterred. Heaving with the long legacy of storms in your past.

'Lots of vegetables, bro.'

'What?'

'We're off to the village upriver to buy you guys lots of vegetables,' a sense of redemption is turning the corner of your lips.

'Cool.'

'We're gonna hook you up.'

'Cool,' I pause. 'Will you be back for tomorrow?'

'Yeah, yeah,' you wave me off. '9:00 right?'

'7:30 actually,' my one radar eyebrow raises in a now familiar weariness.

'Yeah, yeah. Cool.'

But you won't be back. Of course you won't be back. Which is fine, really. Except as part of the outrageous price you charge, there is a 6 hour guided jungle walk included. Guided by you. Tomorrow. At 7:30, remember? We sat down at the beginning of the week, planned to give the students the morning off on this day. Not another day. This day. Which is perfectly timed to what I'm trying to facilitate. See, we have needs. Too.

But you won't be back. I know you won't be back. In fact, at dusk, the boat will return filled with supplies. But no you. No staff that left with you in the morning. Just the driver. And a month worth of supplies. And who's supposed to pull the boat up the beach onto its bamboo moorings? Who's supposed to unload the mountain of supplies from the boat, and carry armload after armload up the quarter mile path from beach to kitchen? Oh, right. Us. Of course. The clients lounging on the hammocks enjoying the sunset on their vacation they spent ungodly amounts of money to enjoy. They are now recruited. Forty minutes to lug the beast of a boat up the beach with the sad help of a little winch lashed to a less than pleased palm tree. Another forty minutes as a rain begins to fall, in the pitch dark, up the muddy path, whacking toes on unseen rocks, exposed rebar; binding muscles already sore from our practice with awkward movements and load shiftings.

But it's all good. That's what you tell me the next night. After you've missed the guided jungle walk. After your prince of an intern saved the day, yet again, by organizing some alternative side trips. With your neighbors. Friendly locals. But it's all good. You know how it is, you tell me. Shop keepers you haven't seen for months. Have to sit and chat. Drink some coffee. Catch up with family affairs. It's the local way. Have to take life as it comes, bro. Boat was full. No more room. Can we reschedule the walk?

No.

We can't.

And even though I can go on teaching this group for months - years, actually, give me years and this spot and these people and we'll float out of here, not walk - though this is true, I can't wait to get out of here under the current circumstances. Only one more blessed day to have to keep my head above the waves you launch at me day after day. Only one more day to negotiate the mine field.

Only problem, though, is you drop a bomb. And really, all the rest of this stuff is forgivable. Negotiable. Mildly amusing from a certain perspective. But the one you have saved for this last day is the only reason I bother to write this. Normally I would just shrug and move on. But you will provide the providence needed to remember you. The motivation to write all this down. So it is given words. The light of day, so to speak, where you can't hide.

I'm called into a 'meeting'. You and your mom. And I know it will be bad because it starts with niceties. All smiles and reminders of the beautiful jungle. A bad sign, I've learned. Then the hammer.

'So the one thing we haven't talked about is the gratuity.'

'What gratuity?'

'Usually 10%. For the 'staff'.'

'10% of what?'

'The total.'

'You want me to collect another stack of cash from these people?'

Dr. Jeckyl eyes flash metallic, and your words come quick like bullets, 'The 'staff' works hard, bro. You can't just throw chump change at them.' Again, it's on me. One last time. But I've already told you, I'm no good at this. So instead I sigh. Seems like a lot of cash to me. But what do I know? I'm just trying to teach some yoga classes.

So I take this information back to the group. They laugh. They actually begin to laugh. Because, you see, your attitude and chaos have driven the clients and the employees together. For support. An odd but sweet alliance. And we know what you pay these poor, bright souls. Chump change. That's what you pay. To cook. To build. To haul. To clean. And you want us to pay what amounts to a full year's salary on one week's gratuity. And the funniest part, you ask me to make sure the money gets to you directly. For fair distribution.

This is when the wife and a student finally push me away. Mumbling that you aren't getting a goddamn cent. Something like that. And they band together to collect this gratuity. And they don't give it to you. But you know this. They give it right to the cook. Gesturing that she should immediately put it against her breast. For safe keeping. If you know what I mean. At least she did. And she smiled.

Later, as we're finally leaving, you will come running up to me. The only time I saw you running all week. Your eyes in a panic, 'What's up with giving the money directly to the cook? What's up with this passive aggressive attitude of your group, man.'

'It's a gratuity, you told me. So we just gave it directly.'

'Yeah, but that won't work,' I think you are actually and audibly now whining. 'Now she won't share it equally.'

Up goes my one eyebrow as I scan the 'staff' in my mind with whom she supposedly won't share: her husband, her son, and two immediate neighbors she seems quite close with. I think of mulling over your logic out loud. But what's the freaking point? Instead I just shrug. I think, and this is not easy to admit, I even apologize.

Which unleashes you into a rant. Back on the subject of the group. And their passive aggressiveness. Their attitude in general which you claim is none too pleasing. And never before seen down here. So foreign to the local vibe. So sour. So suburban is what I think you want to say. 'I mean, if people have something constructive to say, I'm all for it. I studied with Taoist masters,' you actually say this, 'and I'm much more interested in open communication and critical analysis than praise.'

My gait slows. Because this, this more articulate and protracted analysis and communication, this I am good at. So I look at you. I wonder if maybe I can now try to get through to you some of the stuff I've been wanting to express. Some of the stuff in this story. Help you see where things might have gone slightly askew. I step in with a tepid sentence. A carefully worded example to reveal people's expectations of a relationship that is forged when money is exchanged for a service, and how you may not quite have your mind fully wrapped around the realities of this relationship. Yet.

But, you know, back you come. With that owning your expectations thing. About walking the walk and talking the talk. Something about another thing your Taoist master said under some big purple tree in some primary jungle forest in Ecuador or Bolivia or wherever you lived with the elders for ten years sipping some medicinal herb that was good for rheumatism or some shit like this. But I can't really remember. 'Cause I just kind of drift off. It is my last walk on that stretch of beach. And I want to look at the waves. Smell the salt in the air. Trace my eyes along the arc of a sagging palm tree. I want to watch the group bounce along in their laced cadence. Bending over and laughing at a joke I missed. Wrapping newly forged arms of friendship around each other. I want to watch the couple in love. Glowing. Confusing the birds with such early morning brightness.

Mostly I just want to be away from you. To go hang with my tribe. So I do. And when the boats you promised to carry us away never show up, nobody will care. When we get an hour and a half upriver and the taxis you promise don't have enough room to take all of us to the airport, no one will care. We'll make it work. Because, you see, it is not as you say, 'all good, bro'. It just is what it is. And these suburban people, these simple, unpretentious folks who have never slept in the jungle, are mature enough not to lace reality with false optimism, with gadget phrases intended to soften the blow of our own misgivings, laziness, and disregard. They see things for what they are. As is. And they act.

That is why they make you feel so uncomfortable. That is their attitude you mislabel. That is why you are on the run. With those eyes like a ferret. That is why you want us to take life not as it comes, but rather take it as you dish it. Because if you are ever stopped, forced to sit still, swivel and look back at the wake you have kicked up, you will have to reckon with quite a sight.

You told us a story. Do you remember this one? You apparently lived with a wise, fierce Indian from the Amazon. For years you watched him get up in the morning, always to repeat the same task of sharpening his spear first thing upon rising. To a razor's edge you told us. And he looked at you one day and said, 'The truth is as sharp as my spear.'

I know you wanted us to reflect upon that. Some deep meaning held loosely in the air to a group you thought in need of such wisdom. But have you ever pondered to whom, specifically, that wise, fierce Indian directed his words? You are right. The truth is as sharp as a razor. As sharp as his spear. And sometimes it is so sharp, that we don't even feel the gash of its wound.