By Cara Tabachnick

It had been three months since I'd washed my hair, two months since my underwear got stolen off the laundry line, and six days since I last changed my outfit, so I felt sufficiently ready to attend my first Rainbow Gathering/Full Moon Party. It was to take place on the shores of Lago Atitlan in Guatemala. We were looking for Bob's tepee somewhere between San Pedro and Santiago. Because it was a favorite gringo hideout, it didn't take long to secure a boat at an astronomical price. As we approached the spot a giant tepee appeared with leaping figures dancing around, visible in the setting sun. Our friendly boatman's face quickly changed to disapproval.

"Gringos," he muttered as he paddled into the dock.
Appropriately insulted, my friend and I jumped out amid screams of "Sister, Sister, welcome!"  Strange, I mused, I thought my sisters were back in the United States. Soon enough I realized this was the traditional way of greeting in Rainbow Land. Since I didn't have dreadlocks and couldn't name one communal van I'd lived in, I sat on the side watching the festivities.

It was nothing like I'd seen before, and I'd been in Central America a long time. About sixty people were dancing around to the beat of twenty people drumming, singing chants they all seemed to know. Some people were making out, others were spinning, and the rest were running around naked. Restless, I looked around for someone to make out with since naked running and spinning were out of the question.

That was when I was caught and enlisted to help the kitchen workers whip up a vegan dream for eighty hungry hippies. In a way I was glad; nothing makes me happier than slaving over an open fire at a party. There was a group of about eight of us and with our limited choices we dreamed up a menu of pasta. (I never said we were creative.) Then, as the saving grace, we added tortillas and hummus. Hippie Bob had an old-fashioned grinder attached to a piece of wood that served as the counter, preparation space, and table. I was assigned to the hummus. My team of three, including myself, got to work funneling garbanzo beans into the grinder. The conversation was quick and light with the usual traveler gab.

As the mound of light-brown mush expanded, the sounds from below grew louder. Someone had discovered an old sweat lodge and a fire was lit for a party sweat. People were preparing early for the event and had started stripping down, eager to enter. Our instructions were to have the meal ready after the completion of the communal sweat. Working away maniacally, adding some spices here, others there, the dinner was looking good. There was just one problem: the hummus. It was so dry and tasteless, that even I didn't want to keep on trying it. I tried to pass it off to someone else, but with no luck. My teammates had deserted me long ago for the greener pastures of naked bodies stuck together in one small room sweating together, so it was up to me.

What could I add to this? There was nothing except pasta. I considered it for a moment, then struck it off my list and at last in a burst of brilliant inspiration thought: water. Water is good. From childhood we are told to drink eight glasses a day. Water helps your skin, hair, and health, so I figured it could help my hummus. Now remember, we were in Central America where water isn't always the friend you know. There are two types of water: 1. Your best friend, Mr. Agua Pura (pure water). 2. Your worst enemy, Mr. Parasite-Filled Lake Water. Picking up the first jug I saw, I liberally drenched the food. Seconds later, Hippie Bob screamed across the way, "You didn't use the red jug did you, because that is the parasite-filled lake water!" Of course I did, what was he thinking, that I knew what I was doing? Everybody stared, shocked, the main staple of our dinner was now ruined and the animal-like sounds of hunger from below were growing more ominous.

"What should we do?" was the general worried question.

"Cook it!" came back the wise reply from the oldest and most experienced travelers in the group. So we did as told, and the hummus bubbled away merrily on the fire for about half an hour until the screams for food were unbearable. Dinner was served. As we approached the fire, varying travelers in a state of dress and undress were forming a large semi-circle around the glowing embers. All types of plates were brought out, from plastic ones that had seen their prime to plastic bags and scooped out avocado peels.

Before eating, though, one last Rainbow tradition had to be performed, the meditation and thanks. We all held hands and against the background noise of drums, a flute, and a Tibetan meditation bowl, we started singing chants of thanks. Usually I don't believe in this crap, but I must say even I was moved by the beauty of the occasion. With a last "buen provecho," servers started walking around dishing out generous portions of the hummus, pasta, and tortillas. I didn't want to take the hummus, but then I decided if everybody went down I would too. Gingerly, I spooned the first bite into my mouth, and God it was good! From the murmurs I could tell other people were in agreement. Relaxing and flushed with my success, I began to truly enjoy the evening. I even tried playing the drums and made new friends. When I closed my eyes hours later enclosed in a fluffy sleeping bag, surrounded by unwashed hair including my own, my last thoughts were that I had done well.

Hours later the first groans of pain rose from the floor somewhere near me. Soon the groans got louder and were joined by others as people made their way outside to join the ranks squatting in the bushes. Instead of people dancing in the dawn, they were crouching on the lawn. My rhyming stopped as the pains began to seize me, and I soon became one of the many. It turns out that everyone in the gathering had gotten the travelers' fun and feared friend, giardia!

I had poisoned the peace-loving group. With daybreak the softer travelers snuck out for the easier comforts of flush toilets (myself included). As the tepee receded in the distance, I watched from a fetal position in the boat and made myself three promises: 1. I would always use bottled water for everything, including brushing my teeth; 2. I would never eat off the street again; 3. I would never cook for anyone I didn't want to poison.

These resolutions reached, I smiled, looking forward to my next gathering and the story this would make for my grandchildren. I never did follow any of those promises, though, and I try to poison people on a daily basis with my cooking, especially my immediate family.