I consider my life an experiment. Not the controlled-lab-coat kind – more like the “stick a fork in the outlet and see what happens to my aura” kind. So when my cannabis-and-mushroom grower, let’s call him Cas, a longtime festival whisperer, invited me to Boom, one of Europe’s largest psytrance festivals, I thought: “perfect.”
I’d never been to a psy-fest. I missed Woodstock (too young) and Coachella never appealed (too commercial, too curated). Boom felt different. This was the moment: the 14th “edition” with 40-thousand Boomers. Portugal. Summer. Psytrance. Heat. Dust. Naked people. The Ritual of Dance.
What could possibly go wrong?
Turns out: everything, and also nothing. Because this wasn’t just a festival. It was a planetary collision of weirdness, wellness, and woo.
I joined Cas a week before the Boom gates opened, camping with his trusty van among hundreds of other eager pilgrims. This was “pre-pre-camp,” a heat-baked purgatory in a dusty field outside Boomland, in central Portugal. People do this to win the holy grail: a lakeside RV spot – one of only 75 available, blessed with shade and marginally dignified compost-toilet proximity.
We lived like livestock for six days before the festival even started, moving from one scorched holding pen to another. I wasn’t sure it was worth it, but Cas assured me it was. He’s done this four times. He’s like a sunburned Gandalf with a long rosin vaporizer instead of a staff.
Thanks to his expert maneuvering, we landed about 45th in line and scored a spot equidistant from lake front, compost toilets, the 24/7 grocery store, showers, and recycling bins. That’s Boom luxury – five star accommodations, baby!
I slept in my little “2-second” pop-up tent with a fold-up mattress. It was my memory-foam chariot in the dust.
Our lakeside camp became something of a pilgrimage site. Cas, my cannabis-savant guide, was the weed Dalai Lama. Boomers of all ages wandered into our camp, seeking guidance, connection, or just a good sativa. They’d sit cross-legged in the dirt, swap stories, make a purchase, and float off again – sweaty, sparkly, and very relaxed.
Despite the surrounding chemical buffet – LSD, mushrooms, changa, ketamine, MDMA, DMT – cannabis was the through line. Or as everyone there called it, reverently and universally: weed. It’s the spiritual hummus of Boom. It goes with everything.
As someone who works with Earth medicines for emotional and trauma release, I watched all this unfold with fascination, horror, and maybe a little admiration. This wasn’t transpersonal healing. This was trauma roulette with a side of techno.
Some were clearly confronting deep inner terrain. Others were just licking God’s face for sport. The line between the two? Tricky. And hot.
An Israeli woman passed through our camp. One of many, since Israeli Boomers were everywhere (unsurprising, considering psytrance basically started there). I mentioned my work with microdosing, and she laughed. “I can’t do microdosing,” she said, casually ordering ten tabs of acid like she was stocking up on kale. “I need the full impact.”
“The full impact.” My spine tingled.
Once the festival opened, it was like falling into a technicolor portal powered by rhythm and SPF 90. Boomland wraps around a clean, cool lake, a godsend as the temperature hovered between 90 and 100 degrees Fahrenheit, with scarce shade (unless, like us, you braved the pre-festival hustle worthy of its own survivalist reality show).
During the day, Boomers floated in the lake – topless (I tried it) or gloriously naked (also tried it) – as nature intended. When the sun dropped, the beat summoned us from the water like sequined swamp creatures to dance under stars, lasers, and whatever gods happened to be tuning in.
Boomers don’t sleep so much as oscillate. The psytrance beat never stops. It’s not “music” – it’s a pulsing presence that becomes your internal monologue. By day three, I was vibrating on a molecular level.
The theme this year was “The Ritual of Dance,” and yes, it delivered. The dance wasn’t just physical. It was spiritual. And also cardio.
Some of it felt deeply healing. Some of it felt like watching people try to fix a broken window with fireworks.
One night, we passed a tent where our neighbors were chopping mushrooms like onions. Cas asked, “What are you doing tonight?”
“Oh, we’ve got mushrooms, acid, ketamine, and MDMA,” someone replied casually. “We haven’t decided. Maybe a little of everything.”
Ah yes. The cocktail menu of the soul.
Real Boomers (not the U.S. retired generation kind) care about respect, space, and shared energy. There’s a code: don’t take more than you give, don’t push, don’t pollute, and don’t kill the vibe.
But this year, long-timers were grumbling about a new invasion: coke bros and drunk disruptors showing up like reality show rejects, disrespecting the vibe and turning sacred dust into spring break.
Still, for every buzzkill, there were dozens of glitter-drenched humans offering hugs, fruit, insight, or the occasional shoulder to cry on.
Boom takes its ethos seriously. You’re given a vial-shaped ashtray; the unspoken message being: please don’t light Boomland on fire with your roach or cigarette butt.
Compost toilets are everywhere, and drug testing stations (to assure you’re taking what you think you’re taking) help people stay alive while launching themselves into other dimensions. And yes, they even hand out his and hers condoms – because what’s peace and love without a little pragmatic preparation?
Art is everywhere – towering sculptures, interactive installations, and a psychedelic gallery that could double as either a spaceship bridge or a shaman’s dream chamber. Food stalls span every dietary trend your aunt warned you about. High end clothing vendors peddle pieces that blur the line between costume, ritual garb, and wardrobe malfunction.
And through it all, the Boom Ethos: Oneness, Peace, Art, Love, Culture, Music, and Environment. Lofty? Sure. But in the middle of all that dust, it actually works. There are no flags, no borders, no phones (for a minute), and no identities beyond your dance and your glitter.
As a first-timer, I was labeled a “Baby” Boomer, which made me cackle since, in the States, that term belongs to a whole different demographic. Here, it’s just a sweet euphemism for “Boom Virgin.”
But not anymore. I’ve been Boomified! I met two people who were attending their 8th Boom. If they’re Jedi, I was just an eager Padawan, sticky with sunscreen and staring at the stars.
I arrived to Boom as an observer, a therapist, a skeptic. I left… still all of those things. But also someone who knows how to sleep through trance music, pee in a compost toilet with grace (kind of), and watch people transform under the hot pink sky.
Will I be back? I don’t know.
But I do know this: I’ll never be a “Baby” Boomer again.
If you’ve been to Boom (I did meet 3 other Americans!) – or a similar fest, drop it in the comments. I’d love to hear what you saw, felt, danced through, or learned!
With Love,
Becca
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Becca Williams
Emotions Therapist & Registered Dietitian
An Emotions Therapist, Registered Dietitian/Nutritionist, educator, group facilitator, and longtime plant medicine advocate.
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