November 11th, 2019 concluded the second edition of the annual Akumal Arts Festival (AAF) in Akumal, Mexico. By strict facts, the festival lasted four days and hosted over 130 international artists who painted murals, taught workshops, and participated in both an opening and closing ceremony. Weeks before I disembarked to cover the festival in person, its organizers had testified to the place’s singular magic. Once immersed in that atmosphere, I understood the subtle, yet meaningful attributes that make this event distinct from other street art festivals.
This year, the fesitval’s formal theme for artists was climate change. The issue holds special importance to Akumal, a small beach town of 1,310 inhabitants situated nearly halfway between Playa Del Carmen and Tulum. Its name means “place of the turtles” in Mayan, awarded for the large populations that would come to nest in its waters. Beyond this infamous attraction, Akumal offers lush foliage with its jungles, and countless crystal-clear cenotes. The entire town sits upon a series of underground caves and waterways so delicate that visitors must dispose of toilet paper in an external receptacle rather than the toilet itself.
The area once flew completely under the radar, but with the growing popularity of its neighboring municipalities, development has skyrocketed. Not only does this trend threaten the nature itself, as developers often operate with complete disregard for outside entities, it also alters the tone of the town. What has traditionally been a sleepy, earthy community now finds itself in fear of becoming like its Southern neighbor Tulum.
As I learned at the festival’s welcome party, the night before the official opening ceremony, Tulum used to be a hippie haven until moneyed interests commodified that reputation. As a result, NYC-based artist Erin Ko told me, Tulum is an eco-chic, luxury destination whose bounty is only open to a small, privileged portion of the population. AAF isn’t an attempt to stifle change in the area, she said, it’s an effort to shape that change. Akumal’s present residents would like to see its reputation shift towards the arts, if it must acquire a larger reputation at all.
In keeping with this spirit, AAF eschews large corporate sponsors. The festival receives its funding from local businesses and independent art entities. Though the festival lacks in big-money donors, it provides for others as if it owned all the world’s coffers. Through organization, teamwork, and a strong sense of community, the festival’s staff provided artists with free housing, meals, and paint. On November 8th, the day the festival was set to open, I took the 2019 edition’s inaugural tour with Joan, who gives art walks as an airb&b experience. As I popped into the pueblo’s paint store to refill my water bottle, a pickup truck with ice and drinks in the bed parked outside. “This is the party truck!” logistics coordinator Manda told me. “Just keep your eyes out for the flamingo on top.”
That day, Joan and I spent four hours traversing the small pueblo’s limited streets, talking with artists and learning about their work. It could have taken twice that amount of time, if we’d stayed at it, because there was so much art to be seen. Hunger and heat exhaustion proved formidable opponents. We walked twenty minutes along a dirt path that cut through the jungle to Akumal Glamping, where festival participants were offered lunch alongside complimentary dips in their cenote. We swam, and then ate with several of the artists we’d talked to that afternoon before parting ways.
That night, the festival’s opening ceremony welcomed the weekend with a performance on the bridge that soon turned into a procession towards the heart of town. It ended at La Cancha, an outdoor auditorium with bleachers painted especially by Brooklyn-based artist Depoh for the 2019 event. A crowd equal parts artists, locals, and expats took their seats amongst the colors to enjoy performances and speeches.
Thus it truly began. Artists woke up in the houses they shared with each other, all donated for the event by friends of the festival. Artists ate breakfast at Turtle Bay Cafe, a restaurant owned by AAF founder Jen Smith that provided a complimentary buffet for participants each morning. Then, the artists painted. Artists swarmed the town for the entire festival’s duration, painting on every available surface. When they finished their own assignments, they found new walls and forged collaborations. By the festival’s official second day, I could confidently call 70% of the people I passed by their first name.
Before heading to the festival, I’d learned about tensions between the pueblo and playa sides of Akumal. The former is populated by Mexican citizens, born and raised in the area. The latter is dominated by ex-pats who own luxurious abodes with ocean views. I’d read that each side stuck to themselves. Ever-ready to keep a foot in each camp, I practiced my proficient, conversational Spanish and sought to split my days between the two areas. The tensions weren’t as evident as I’d expected. In conversation with another festival organizer, I learned that the two have a symbiotic relationship that goes back far enough to keep tension to a minimum. Ex-pats have long been a structural component of the place’s very DNA. Still, without the pueblo, it wouldn’t be the town it is today.
Perhaps one of the most rewarding unifying aspects of this festival lies in its inclusion of workshops for local children. I attended one workshop hosted at the pueblo’s community center by NYC-based artist Abby Pressberg and Mexican artist Melina Inzuza. Together, speaking their respective English and Spanish, the pair taught a diverse class of young students (and me) how to create our own kaleidoscopes. I had each member sign my magenta contraption, and today it sits on the bookshelf of my Williamsburg, Brooklyn bedroom.
I’d heard some of the festival’s organizers fondly refer to the event as ‘art camp.’ When the time came for the closing ceremony, after the fire dancers had finished their performance and the rain petered out to a gentle drizzle, Smith invited the artists down from the Cancha’s bleachers and onto its main floor. As a surprise, a local shaman would provide a cleansing for each participant, and the artists arranged themselves in a line to receive their blessings. While waiting, the artists hugged each other and exchanged memories from the magical weekend. Some cried fat, happy tears while others let laughter loose from the depths of their bellies. Watching the throng mill about, I marveled at the feelings percolating in my own gut. The sense of community amongst artists, expats, locals, and the handful of writers who I was so grateful to cover this event alongside concocted some emotion I hadn’t felt in adulthood. It was pure, unadulterated, goofy, and loving. “Art camp,” I thought to myself, with its youthful connotations, “is a rather campy, albeit accurate, thing to name the profound experience that took place here.” One can only hope, and perhaps expect, that this event remains the same for years to come.
