Once upon a time, Tulum, Mexico was a major port and trading center for the Maya. The Yucatán city was known for its extensive fortification, surrounded by thick limestone walls on three sides, with the fourth side protected by cliffs facing the Caribbean. These fortifications did not succeed in protecting Tulum’s Indigenous residents from later Spanish colonization, nor did they protect the area from a new type of invasion today: that of a peculiar breed of spiritually-inclined, wealthy expats seeking enlightenment… preferably the type that can be aesthetically documented via Instagram post.
Enlightenment and entitlement
The Tuluminati, as they’ve come to be known, are wealthy expats who descended upon this tropical paradise, armed with hefty bank accounts and a burning desire to find themselves and their purpose. Unlike their Illuminati namesake, this group is less of a secret society conspiring to meddle in world affairs and is more the type to be found taking selfies while sipping artisanal mezcal and discussing their latest ayahuasca trip.
Urban Dictionary defines Tuluminati as “An ironic, self-imposed title for the privileged hippies that came to gentrify Tulum Mexico.” The sassy, crowd-sourced entry continues scathingly:
“They were the ones that posted Instagrams of themselves dancing in “fire ceremonies” to shamanic house music on the beach while wearing mumus and doing [ketamine]. They stayed in rooms that cost $1000 a night and “worked” as influencers who were just so #blessed to be there. Unfortunately, the Tuluminati aesthetic was exposed in 2015 for gentrification and now #tulumisdead.”
Indeed, this species of digital nomad has changed the sociocultural landscape of Tulum, raising eyebrows for their pseudo-spiritual, bohemian lifestyle, often powered by tech-industry paychecks and a heady mix of Indigenous medicines and designer drugs, while residing in luxury accommodations that boast eye-popping price tags.
Tribal beats and ketamine chronicles
The Tuluminati are drawn to events that fuse hedonism with spirituality. The electronic music scene of Tulum, in particular, is a magnet for the Tuluminati. You can find them mingling and swaying to the tribal beats of a DJ dressed in shamanic attire on a beach, or attending all-night parties.
Ketamine is the most popular drug of choice, often paired with magic mushrooms. For the more “spiritually experienced,” there are carefully-prepped “party pouches” of substances like DMT, rapé (an Indigenous ceremonial snuff) and MDMA, generously shared among friends and strangers alike.
The aftermath of these parties is just as predictable: by morning, they can be spotted wearing designer sunglasses, feeling the residual effects of the night, perched at trendy beachside cafés with names like Raw Love, casually picking at acai bowls while recounting the details of the “cenote deep house rave” they danced at until 9 a.m.
The great Tulum migration
Many of these pseudo-spiritual Western expats have made Tulum their permanent home. In a sardonic guide to Tulum, Tribalik Blog provides a portrayal of these modern settlers, pointing out that today’s “hippy hipsters” differ drastically from the more grounded spiritualists of the past:
“They spend their days doing new forms of acro yoga or spiritual coaching, have new words for chakras and auras that I can’t even remember and run so many awesome sounding projects my eyes and ears both hurt. They basically make me miss the more grounded tie-dye trouser wooly jacket wearing tarot card reading hippies of Brighton. Or even the Astanga barefooted rebirth loving hippies of Goa.“
Indeed, Tuluminati are characterized by their willingness to spend significant money on spiritual wellness experiences. It is not uncommon to see events like “Celebrating the Great Kundalini awakening!” and “Lunar Yoni Cleansing Circles” abound, with ticket prices that would make many of us choke on our overpriced matcha lattes.
The Tuluminati dress code
Tuluminati are instantly recognizable, so spotting one in the wild is easier than you might think — and not just because they engage in impromptu front-and-center photo shoots wherever they go. These seekers of style and spirituality adopt certain garments and accessories associated with Tulum’s bohemian culture, including unusual sunglasses and items with cultural or spiritual symbolism, creating a unique mix of high-end and artisanal fashion.
The attire of this class of individual can sometimes be described as “cult leader chic” – a cross between expensive tribal-inspired fashion, Burning Man-esque costumes and designer bathing suits. Look for the telltale signs: layered shamanistic bead necklaces, wide-brimmed boho hats often retailing at close to US $350, tribal mumus and flowy natural-fabric garments that whisper “I’m spiritual, but make it fashion,” at wild price tags.
Tuluminati style reflects the contrast between adopting a want-to-be-seen “hippie” aesthetic while living a luxury lifestyle. On a Reddit thread filled with users venting about the disappointing superficiality of Tulum, one writer aptly described her experience with the Tuluminati as “People getting dressed up to bike down the dirt road.”
Locals weigh in
While some embrace the Tuluminati lifestyle, others view it as a form of cultural commodification or inauthentic spiritual tourism.
Most locals have nostalgic impressions of Tulum before Tuluminati, espousing mixed feelings about the phenomenon that has turned their quiet beach town into a trendy tourist hotspot. Many express concern over rapid development, particularly its impact on Indigenous communities, some of whom face eviction as Indigenous land is sold for luxury developments, like the exclusive Aldea Zama. Once home to just 20,000 residents (per a 2020 census), Tulum’s population is projected to skyrocket to 250,000 over the next decade. While tourism has brought economic opportunities, it has also driven up living costs, putting pressure on locals.
Cultural appropriation is another sore spot, with some feeling their traditions and spirituality are being commercialized and misrepresented. Environmental concerns have arisen, noting the strain on natural resources and damage to fragile ecosystems like the area’s cenotes.
A moving photo essay by the Society of Cutural Anthropology highlights the complex relationship between Indigenous populations, commercial exploitation, and cultural commodification, leaving many natives feeling displaced and worried about the long-term impacts on their families, communities and environment. The essay asks: “how is it possible that people can smile while living under poverty, pollution, and displacement—all consequences of modernization and the creation of spaces for our delight.”
The irony of the Tuluminati movement is not lost. Many of its members, who are often part of “world-improvement-focused” communities like Summit and Burning Man, claim to be environmentally conscious while jetting around the globe. They advocate for cultural appreciation yet commodify Indigenous practices, and they profess minimalism while indulging in luxury.
When the party’s over: Tulum’s morning after
Yet, despite all the criticism, the Tuluminati seem like they’re here to stay for a while. As Tulum and its Mexican locals address the effects of this high-end-hippie-driven phenomenon, it begs the question: how will this play out over time?
One thing’s for sure — whether it’s in Tulum or elsewhere, these tech shamans and Instagram yogis will bring their unique blend of pseudo-spirituality, deep pockets and party lifestyle wherever they go.
Monica Belot is a writer, researcher, strategist and adjunct professor at Parsons School of Design in New York City, where she teaches in the Strategic Design & Management Program. Splitting her time between NYC and Mexico City, where she resides with her naughty silver labrador puppy Atlas, Monica writes about topics spanning everything from the human experience to travel and design research. Follow her varied scribbles on Medium at https://medium.com/@monicabelot.
