We were gathered in a tipi, standing shoulder to shoulder, our cheeks flushed from the heat of the room. I stood sober, with my friends on my right and strangers on my left, together absorbed in a cloud of smoke. It was my second night in Lake Atitlán, Guatemala. I knew very little about Mayan culture, learning about it as I went. But as I stood in the tipi, surrounded by women wearing baggy shirts and flared pants with no bras and many braids, I knew that whatever Guatemalan culture was, this was not it. “Hola”, exclaimed the lead singer before beginning to sing in English. The strangers on my left turned to me and said, “he went to Harvard.” A blonde woman grabbed my hand, pulling me into the crowd as she undid the knot of her holster dress. She pulled at my shirt, gesturing for me to join her in her nudist celebration. I yanked my shirt back down, remembering how definitively I’d been told by a local woman to dress modestly. I looked behind me trying to find my friends who had disappeared into the crowd. As I scanned the room, I imagined zooming out on google maps to see the tipi, the village, and then the lake. We were in Guatemala. But really, we could have been anywhere. ---- From the cliff of Varkala in India to the well-trodden motorbike paths of Thailand, tourists seeking alternatives to Western, capitalist life have found refuge in various corners of the ‘developing’ world. These countries are littered with natural beauty and rich cultures that—unlike the tourism destinations of the ‘first world’—appear largely undiscovered. Favourable exchange rates has turned ‘developing’ countries into hotspots for adventurous travellers looking for reiki treatments, spiritual healing and cheap beer. Lake Atitlán in Guatemala is home to one of these enclaves: tourists from across the Western world flock to the lake’s villages to experience bohemian living that has more in common with Burning Man than it does with local Mayan traditions. I first heard descriptions of Lake Atitlán’s villages while eating a home-cooked meal in a fancy, gated community in Guatemala city. At the dinner, descriptions of Lake Atitlán’s villages were passed around the table like water jugs and food platters. A ‘mecca’ of Mayan culture, I was told by one person. Home to textile designs, another remarked. I collected their anecdotes, imagining colourfully intricate fabrics, distinct dialects and locally seasoned dishes. When we disembarked from the water taxi the next morning, having reached the shores of the lakeside village San Juan, we were greeted with the sound of dance music that immediately took me back to New York bars. While nodding my head to familiar rhythms, I quickly erased the mental image of a secluded, authentic slice of Guatemalan culture. Far from being the soul of Mayan heritage, San Juan is the epicenter of American hippie life. As one weaves their way through its narrow streets, shop-keepers pop their heads out, advertising Spanish lessons. Restaurants promoting vegan menus are filled with predominantly American tourists wearing variations of the same loose-fitting clothes. Rainbow coloured bags with ‘Guatemala’ embroidered on it are available for purchase, divorced from their cultural roots and commodified for the American consumer. Although Lake Atitlán is home to eleven villages—some of which are left untouched by gringos—many have become pilgrim sites for Western hippies, looking for alternative forms of communal living. Despite its utopian promise of communitarianism and embrace of local customs, the colonization of lakefront property by hippie establishments works to push local cultures beyond the purview of the lake’s shores. The hostel we stayed at was owned by an American, like most local businesses in San Juan. Situated a mere two meters above the water, the hostel was clearly located on the most desirable land in the village. Local farmers meandered around it, caring for the surrounding vineyards. After settling into our room, a cleaner brought us towels. As she leaned over to place them on the bed, her white uniform pulled up to reveal an inch of the intricate, colourful textiles she was wearing beneath her clothes. I felt as if I had spotted the waldo of local culture.