Hippy Mayan New Year

San Marcos is known as a bit of a draw for the new-age traveller, so I wasn’t surprised to see signs all over offering everything from yoga to meditation to healing massage to lessons in reiki to accommodations in the shape of pyramids with their four points coinciding with those of the compass. Long hair, wispy tie-dye, and bare feet was the dress code, apparently, and shaving was frowned upon, for either sex. Rooms were cheap, food was healthy, and the atmosphere one of quiet contemplation. I actually liked it.

In the mornings, I swam and sunbathed off the rocks that cascaded into the clear, calm water that lapped the shore, and spent my afternoons downing strawberry liquados and tofu burgers.

While in Blind Lemon's one afternoon, drinking a strawberry liquado and scoffing down a large and delicious veggie burger, I heard the haunting sound of a single, wailing voice accompanied at times by a chanting crowd. As the singing approached, I was delighted to see a procession coming my way, consisting of a large group of locals, the women in matching purple traditional dress, the men bearing on their shoulders a statue of Jesus carrying a cross. They solemnly wound their way around the lane before turning right and disappearing up the hill, the voices still resounding. I managed to steal a few shots as the parade went away.

It wasn't to be the only religious event I would witness that day: While exploring the narrow lanes that lead to everywhere worth going to, I came across an English girl, Clare, who talked me into attending a special ceremony taking place on a nearby hilltop to celebrate the eve of the Mayan new year. How could I say no? We trekked up the rocky path and soon stumbled across the bonfire ringed by Mayan priests and new-age travellers who were focused on the flames as they listened to each other make speeches that were translated for the rest of us by a greying lady in ankle-length tie-dye with matching bandana.

The onlookers were taking the event very seriously, but I became more fascinated by the fireflies that flashed like neon beacons in the grass and trees around the semi-meditative crowd. I was impressed when, at one point, one of the priests talked about the importance and benefit of having canine companions and, as he spoke, a dog walked out of the darkness and stood by his side as though to press the point. The priest seemed tickled too.

One seemingly very important priest, who had fasted for five days to protect us from the evils that abound during the shortest month that marks the end of the Mayan calendar, lectured the audience on the rituals that should accompany the coming of a new year. He suggested cutting one’s hair, shaving, and taking a shower to mark this important new beginning—not unwise words given the audience.

I took some photos, contemplated life, the universe, and everything, and decided to leave as the random bongo-banging reached a crescendo and the crowd were being encouraged to make a donation before joining in a holding-of-hands that I knew was bound to precipitate a group hug.


The next day, I shaved and showered, and even brushed my teeth.