Part One: The Turning Tide VI

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The scene buzzed: a central bar, a DJ spinning an eclectic mix—reggae to oldies—to a lively crowd. He seemed utterly lost in his music, looking pretty baked and oblivious to us. Jorge and I navigated to the well-stocked bar, eager for beers. It even offered a snack bar, a welcome sight for any appetite.

Beers in hand, we found our sandy spot, settling in to observe the vibrant crowd. They danced, drank, laughed, and embraced their own highs. A few swayed gently in hammocks, pictures of pure relaxation. It struck me then: it had been an eternity since I’d felt such profound calm. Glancing up, a red moon hung above us, an enigmatic alignment that felt strangely fortunate on my birthday.

Being away for my 33rd birthday was, frankly, a welcome escape. Jorge, thoughtful as ever, planned this trip, letting me completely sidestep the annual family spectacle: the arguments, the overblown drama, the unpleasant faces, and the general chaos. Honestly, my best birthdays were always in childhood or away from home. The only things I genuinely miss? Mom’s cake and Grandma’s visits. She always loved celebrating. Everyone else? Nah, just leave me be!

We often chuckled about the irony: enjoying such an idyllic spot for an incredibly low price. Our chats drifted to Mexico’s unique tourist landscape, how much remains beautifully untouched. We felt lucky to have visited when we did, sensing a shift. With social media's relentless rise—everyone posting videos, snapping selfies, broadcasting their 'vital' opinions—we were grateful to have experienced it before that trend became utterly dominant.


Looking back at moments like this one, captured in the image below, it's wild to recall the atmosphere. The heavy pot smoke wasn't just in the air; it felt like it was painting the scene itself, distorting everything and everyone, making it hard to tell where the music ended and the visuals began.



To truly celebrate, we made several trips to the bar, sampling delightful drinks, margaritas, of course. Predictably, we got quite tipsy. Then, a brilliant idea struck: let’s get some weed! Without hesitation, we approached the bar and, in our amateurish state, blurted, "Do you sell weed?" The bartender’s glare was immediate and fierce. We instantly realized our blunder. Dejected, we retreated to our spot.

A guy with dreadlocks in a nearby hammock must have pitied our obvious naiveté. He gestured for me to come behind the bar and, to my utter astonishment, slipped a massive stash into my pocket. I was absolutely flabbergasted!

I returned to Jorge, holding the enormous package. He burst into laughter. “What in the hell are we going to do with that?” he chuckled. I just laughed back. Being entirely inexperienced, we sheepishly asked another hammock neighbor to roll a joint for us. He gave us a look—all puppy eyes, as if we were incredibly naive and irritating (which, to be fair, we were)—but he rolled it anyway. We smoked it, high as kites. The night immediately grew more delightful; colors and sounds became more vibrant, and for the first time after smoking weed, I felt completely unflustered.




Please don't misunderstand my intention in sharing this story. While I don't encourage anyone to actively seek out or purchase marijuana in Zipolite, I also won't judge you if you choose to do so. There are, after all, many more compelling aspects to this unique place beyond just smoking weed.


© 2025 The Dark Rose's Traces. All Rights Reserved. 


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