Traveler’s Journal — Doing a Moonie

On the beautiful Lago de Atitlán, Guatemala, lies the small and “alternative” community of San Marcos. Home to an indigenous Mayan population, aging hippies and organic smelling backpackers alike, this lakeside idyl offers an experience unlike many others. Having spent brief periods of time there in the past, the most note-worthy of which being the occasion when I was unceremoniously locked inside a bungalow whilst my shoes were stolen by gang of miscreant schoolchildren, I had until recently been oblivious to one of the village’s most infamous attractions, namely: Las Pyramidas.

Within hours of arriving in sunny San. M, you will undoubtedly hear talk of “The Moon Course.” Excited chatter wafting past on the warm afternoon breeze, baggy-panted beauties animatedly discussing the latest escapade involving Miguel and the marvelous medicinal properties of Mexican Sage. Do not be alarmed, dear friends, you haven’t unwittingly stumbled into a J.K. Rowling wet dream. They are referring to the exciting happenings of a month-long course which starts every turn of the moon, and takes place within the sacred walls of Las Pyramidas.

The Pyramids, a name preferably to be whispered whilst utilizing flowy hand movements and granola eyes, deals with the likes of opening chakras, purification and the general cleansing of orifices: literal and physical. The Moon Course is the most popular of its attractions and comprises four weeks of yoga, meditation and spiritual teaching, culminating in what The Moon folk reverently refer to as “The Retreat.” During “The Retreat” each participant is encouraged to fast and remain silent, pondering the following questions: Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going? How can we get in touch with our inner light?

I don’t know if anyone is familiar with that episode of Home & Away, an Aussie soap-opera that seems to have enjoyed the height of its popularity in the UK  at the beginning of the 1990’s, where the character of Selena gets kidnapped by her step-father, Saul, taken to join a cult and forced to nurture organic vegetables and suckle free-range cattle, but there are distinct overtones of such at Las Pyramidas. There is something distinctly cult-like about this Chapin Stonehenge . . .

Led by the beautiful Charity, who I like to think of as “The Head Witch” because she would sporadically burst forth in tongues as she channeled the voices of passing spirits, Las Pyramidas is governed by a group of teachers. Each of them has their own specialty and each, at least during more formal occasions, is named after one of the four elements: Earth, Wind, Fire, and Water. A bit like The Power Rangers. Or Captain Planet.

Theoretically, people can come and go as they please, either joining for a day here and there or choosing to embark on the full 28-day spiritual journey. Yet the meatless womb of The Moon Course seems to quietly incubate a distrust of people who chose to exist outside of its spongy and Spirulina-powdered interior. Or maybe not even a distrust, but a sort of pity. Enclosed within in a vegan bubble of introversion, interacting with normals becomes difficult, whilst there is a resentment towards newbies, who cannot yet understand the ways of The Moon. I felt it myself, within maybe five days of being there. As I walked around town wearing special “in silence” badge — smiling apologetically and bowing with clasped hands, like some sort of sloaney Dalai Lama — it was easy to feel superior to those terribly unenlightened tourists asking for directions, eating red meat and drinking Mountain Dew like Neanderthals.

I joined the course in its closing stages. A move which some might, quite rightly, consider unwise. I had only been there for 72 hours when “The Retreat” kicked off and I was rather alarmingly informed that I would not be allowed to speak or eat. For seven days. Now, ordinarily, this sort of carry-on is absolutely not something I would have poked at with a substantial barge pole but, as fate would have it, my friends tricked me into joining them. I was meant to be meeting them to have a lovely time in Honduras. Instead, I find them loitering around in Guatemala’s answer to Glastonbury getting their auras cleansed so, rather than working on my Advanced PADI, I found myself earnestly unpicking the secrets of Metaphysics over mugs of chai tea in Moonfish Cafe..

I had seen a change in my friends’ correspondence between the time I left to go home for Christmas and my return to the lake. My suspicions were confirmed when, after a highly irregular supper of stewed tofu and raw cacao, one of them suggested that we head to the medicinal garden for a spot of evening chanting. Formerly a fairly cool surfer type, I was somewhat surprised to find myself, moments later, with him and a group or bearded and tie-died others, cross-legged under the night sky amongst rose bushes, learning how to “Ohm.” And, sadly, that is not a sexual reference. My favorite part was when the wind started to blow as we sang, which seemed to excite some of the other chanters extremely, prompting much waving of hands and eye rolling.

Normally, Moon Course participants are asked to pass their month-long stint in a personal-size pyramid but, as a late-comer I was made to stay in a construction which can really only be adequately described as “Owl’s House,” a la Winnie The Pooh. Living in a thatched dwelling which would make a timely and fitting addition to The Hundred Acre Wood, I felt like bloody Christopher Robin. Plus, an observation in the interest of health and safely, or simply or common sense: people here meditate in candle light in houses made almost entirely of twigs. Surely it’s only a matter of time before there is some sort of horrendous accident and the whole place goes up in a towering inferno.

To be honest, I’m really not sure how much time I have for meditation anyway. It seems rather unrealistic. How on earth are you supposed to think about nothing? What does that even mean? I tried, I really did. We were encouraged, during the period of silence, to spend at least an hour and a half a day in meditation, and everyone else seemed to be pretty pro. I tried many things in my desperation to succeed, even raiding the dusty shelves of The Pyramid library (opened between 2-4pm by a part-time nudist) finding books encouraging me to “acknowledged my thoughts as friendly visitors,” but anything close to a meditative state remained staunchly out of reach. The closest I got to enlightenment was the word “malapropism” repeating itself in my head. I have subsequently tried to look for deeper meaning to the recurrence of this grammatical term, but I think I was just going mental through semi-starvation and an inadvisable over-exposure to Hem Champa incense.