Where to begin… It seems like so long ago now, but in actual fact it was just a fortnight ago that I was in Cabo Polonio, spiritual home to the Uruguayan hippies. Leaders of the free world. Perhaps it seems so long ago because there is no electricity or internet there and so everything took on a grey hue. Perhaps not.
I say leaders of the free world because it is here that the heart of the marijuana legalisation campaign exists – according to Vice. In actual fact I experienced nothing of the sort. Having heard tell of a ‘remote commune, off the grid, living without electricity – where all the water comes from the well’ I daresay I was as intrigued as you are, reading this.
We boarded the bus set for Cabo Polonio, instructed when we got out we should ‘hopefully’ be able to find a truck to take us over the 8km of dunes leading to the community. When we got to the bus stop, I was unsure we were in the right place, instead of the dunes and isolation in front of us, there was a large car park and a national park entrance, also named Cabo Polonio. We got out, amazed, it may not be the correct Cabo Polonio but it might be worth staying we thought to ourselves.  The entrance to the national park was like no other I’ve seen in South America. This complex contained, probably amongst millions of other things, a bus ticket office, tourist information, a shop and the cleanest, best plumbed toilets in the history of public lavitation in South America. Before we sussed out the truck situation, I rewarded these toilets with a large dump and a tip to the toilet can, discreet and clean. When I returned and we explored this miniature Charles de Gaule, we soon found this was the correct Cabo Polonio and that getting there would be a lot easier than we had heard. First we queued in a particularly orderly queue, then, we bought tickets.
Getting on to a bus provided uswith almost as much hassle, there seemed to be bus leaving every 15 minutes and we jumped on almost immediately. The only problem was that by now, amid the hoardes of tourists also going to the comune, we already felt rather cheated.
So an ultra exclusive hippy hideaway this may not be but at least the authenticity of the place is so uncompromised that the instant we set foot in their shared sand, with our bare-feet, our souls would be released from the evil, branded, shackles of capitalism. 

One of the safari trucks-come-buses ferrying you to Cabo Polonio

With this in mind, we were slightly taken aback by the smell as we made our way through the dunes and onto the beach. Was that the hippies? Had we made a terrible mistake?
I was already starting to miss the WiFi.

Ever the positive soul, I convinced everyone to chill, it’d be fine.
“Chill.” I said.
And so we held our noses and shared a few jokes as we caught first sight of the village.
I was impressed, this was the first lighthouse I’d seen in adult memory, and it stood triumphant and defiantly above the ramshackle of self built huts and the occasional more permanent houses. The lighthouse sits at the end of the beach, jettisoned on the edge of nowhere, just out of sight, keeping those going somewhere safe from that which lingers unseen. Below this empathetic cyclops we entered the village. After passing a couple of hostels we realised that it may be easier to find somewhere to stay than we had initially imagined. The bus drew in/around the roundabout-cum-bus stop-cum-sand dune and we jumped out grabbing our stuff and holding our noses, the reek was furious now. Our Dutch companion now voicing his annoyance.
“Fucking hippies.” He said jokingly, and oh how we laughed.
It was from here we first saw the masses of rotting, dead black marine life on the beach. Seals. Smelly dead seals. At least they were lazy enough to neglect to lift and move the objects stinking out their whole comune, I had found some new respect for these hippies.

We dragged through the sand, holding our noses, to a hostel where a friend was staying, hopeful we could get beds at decent rates. We were to be disappointed, the hostel owner could give one of us a mattress but after that – no room at the inn. My girlfriend and I then decided we’d be best to find somewhere before dark and then we could meet up with our Dutch friend after everything was sorted. So we trudged back to the main village. Door one – No space. Door two- bed for £20 each. Door three – only a double bed for £30 each! With the going rate around £10 for a hostel room we were almost about to bow to these prices and take the hit to our budget but just then I spotted a door across the ‘square’. Door four -£15 each. Slightly ridiculous but we’d have to go for it. I was not happy.
“Fucking bastards have the nerve to call themselves hippies and then they charge treble the average rate!” I said.
Oh well, at least we had a bed. And contrary to rumour, we had a dorm with electricity (in the form of rather effective led strip lights). With night descending fast, we made a quick run to the shop for some beer before we went to meet our friends (shelves laden with Coke brand a-cola and lit beautifully by 50watt bulbs).
The secret was out, this was no commune.

The lighthouse and campfire as the night began. Talking, predictably about weed, whilst we predictably smoked weed.

Disappointed but not totally saddened, we laughed it off. It would still be a fun night, let the drinks flow and we’ll see how the hippies party.
So as the inevitable cloud of weed smoke also decended, we enjoyed a beautiful artisan pizza by candlelight . Perhaps I was wrong about all these guys. After a few expensive beers and a disagreement over the bill amount, we set off, some worse off than others. The hippy spirit had reached in through my lungs and touched my heart, leaving me pied eyed and happy.
It was around now, that our Dutch friend decided to blow open some stereotypes. (Mainly through a massive personal consumption of cachaça.)
First stereotype, not all Dutch people smoke weed. So, as we smoked and drank beers, he drank. Second stereotype, not all hippies are accepting and liberal. Infact as we took our catcalling, legless Dutchman into one of many nichely designed, cosy stoner bars, we found ourselves the unwanted party at the party. (That could be the paranoia talking.)
As he friendly-ly moved from table to table introducing himself to the ladies and signing Bob Marley, it became clear that he was out of place, he’d had too much commune. The ambiance was ruined for all but the outsiders who saw the place for what it was – a business venture. Just as it may take a teenager singing Gangnam Style in a multistorey nightclub for you to realise the tasteless decadence of the place, it took a stone drunk dutchman singing Bob Marley for me to truly realise the irony in place here. These may sound like the slavours of a conspiracy-theory harbouring stoner, yet my suspicions were to be confirmed by full beaches of Brazilians the following day. As we all tiptoed around the dead seals, pretending we were ‘away from it all’, something stunk.  Something was fishy. It was of course, the exploitation. A gross misrepresentation of a culture pigeon holed and dread locked. As we climbed the lighthouse and admired the live seal colony, I got on reflecting.
Being liberal shouldn’t mean wearing the obligatory uniform of dreads and rasta colours. That leaves us in the same place as 1direction tshirts. Nor should it be about smoking ‘da erb’.  Being Liberal is about acceptance, and that is not how we felt as the cliques sneered at us the night previous. I’ve been in a truly liberal place as the atmosphere engulfs those cosily stoned or those flying to the moon and back. The beautiful thing about those places is the lack of judgement as you tinker or experiment towards fulfilled experience. It is not just about being fucking stoned.
Furthermore, isolation is not something that can be sold. I think that some of the ramshackle huts further from the main village would contain the eccentric community that had removed itself from a society of which they were no part, however to find and befriend these people was nigh on impossible as we were spoon fed the idea of commune. And though I enjoyed the evening as a spectacle, I felt further enshrouded in the spectacle I had come to leave.
True isolation of spirit is not something you can find easily. It’s something you must commit to and not something you can purchase. On that note I announce my drastic (first-class) departure to Tibet.
Lol jks. I < 3 WiFi.

Mr Hummels