You can also read this article in Spanish.

It was Friday night at Somos, during Paurro's set, when I realised we were beginning to sync. Fresh from zig-zagging the world for well-deserved bookings, the bleach-blonde, red-lipped Mexican DJ sparkled in the colourful lights of the CDJs. She played a pitched-up remix of "The Oracle" by The Carry Nation & The Cucurachas, whose cornerstone sample croons: "This cannot last forever/ All this trouble and pain." I was scanning the crowd for someone, a possible crush, when suddenly he was beside me, offering a bump of tusi (the mysterious, questionable "pink cocaine" spreading through Miami and Latin America). I'd never tried it, but Paurro's next track barked "do it," so I did, with no regrets.

As I danced with my crush in a tusi-pink haze, it hit me that trans people aren't unlovable, as I'd been conditioned to believe. In fact, it was my own clinging to this belief that kept me from the love I deserve. In an instant, I exhaled years' worth of trouble and pain, just as the track implored me to "set yourself free."

Such sacred synchronicities and profound revelations are the magic that blooms when a festival's just right; everything feels like a dream. This year's Somos, a queer music and arts festival on Mexico's Pacific coast, had that magic.

Last year's did not. That's no shade: it was the festival's first year, and on a beach accessible only by boat an hour south of Puerto Vallarta, it was hard to get the logistics right (without things like consistent sound and smooth operations, magic is harder to reach). No one felt this more than the Mexican recipients of Somos's first Trans Scholarship Fund, launched by festival organisers Jerren Werbes and Victor Rodriguez to bring more transgender people from Mexico and abroad to the festival, regardless of their ability to pay. "From my 40 years in nightlife," Rodriguez told me, "one thing I've observed is that all the cool kids are poor." Trans people, he added, bring "a magic."

In 2022, a handful of trans and non-binary people received free tickets and flights to Somos. Yet they were put up in a house with no food or running water, facing what Mexican artist and organiser Sofia Moreno called "tone-deaf" prices—$20 USD for a burger—at the bohemian beach club that hosts the festival. In a statement published on her private Instagram, Moreno wrote that the scholarship enabled little more than "the experience of watching foreigners spend along," all too familiar in a country rife with "exploitative tourism." She implored Werbes and Rodriguez, a California-based couple who are white Canadian and Cuban-American respectively, to hire more queer and trans Mexican performers, with a focus on supporting local artists and economies.

Werbes and Rodriguez got the message. This year, half the artists on the lineup came from Mexico, with tickets for Latin American residents costing a fifth of what gringos paid. 15 local drag queens, dancers and vogueras from Puerto Vallarta were paid to perform, some of whom shared an enormous beach villa with eight trans scholarship recipients, or becadas, from Mexico City. (Six trans people from the US, including myself, received partial scholarships).

Mexican DJ Paurro's set was a blaze of acid-laced tracks.

At an event mostly filled with cis gay foreigners, these queer and trans Mexican folks sometimes felt sidelined. For example, the scholarship house once again lacked food, until one non-binary becade trudged 20 minutes down a precarious highway to buy groceries. But thanks to Moreno's original intervention, support from other trans folks and last-minute adjustments by the well-intentioned Werbes (including the provision of food and drink tickets at the festival), nearly all ultimately praised the experience.

"Too often, 'queer' really just means cis and male in our community," said HUNY, a Pittsburgh-based DJ who played at Somos and consulted on its scholarship fund. (HUNY co-leads the Queer Fam Fund, which addresses barriers to entry for people of colour at Honcho Campout). "It's literally dangerous to navigate the world as a trans person. The very least they deserve is ease and respite, especially at any event that labels itself queer."

"Queer" in the radical sense implies not just "LGBT," but a solidarity that transcends borders. Somos's greatest magic came from its intentional braiding of performances by foreign and Mexican artists, a fusion rarely–if ever–seen in a foreigner-centric hotspot like Puerto Vallarta. Around sunset on Friday, HUNY revved the energy with ethereal hip-hop edits and vogue beats, before Mexico City's trans pop princess, Zemmoa, sang live with the backing of a mariachi band she'd met on the beach. Puerto Vallarta drag collective House of Peaches took the stage with Kiki House of Paradise, the city's first ballroom house, for a thoughtfully choreographed and roaringly received showcase. After Paurro's blaze of acid-laced tracks, Midland blessed us with a bright and vocal-driven psychedelic love spell.

On Saturday, the festival moved from Casitas Maraika—whose private beachfront space is lovely, but only reachable by a 15-minute hike after a ten-minute boat ride—to the more accessible Akali Beach Club, which featured a pristine pool, great Mexican food and (gratefully for my calves) a flat, sand-free dance floor. (Many attendees agreed it would be an easier place to host the entire festival, though the remote, jungle-like Maraika has its draws.) HUNY played again, with Latin and African rhythms infusing a daytime pop fantasy that became the weekend's most savoured set. At closing, Atlanta's Vicki Powell passed the baton to The Carry Nation's Will Automagic. Two hardworking veterans of the US queer scene, both artists steered enthralling house journeys with true-to-form technical mastery.

The lineup included 15 local drag queens, dancers and vogueras from Puerto Vallarta.

Back at Maraika, the Somos magic reached fever pitch on Sunday. Ketamine was obviously flowing, but it was tusi that seemed to inspire the steamy, pansexual vibe. I saw gays kissing girls and trans people getting love on the dance floor, rare phenomena in cis gay–dominated spaces. This followed an oceanside "protection ritual" performed by trans activist and starlet Aine Marin and Mexico City collective Magia Ilegal, who spun fire and chanted in several languages as spiritual resistance to the rampant killing of Mexican trans women.

Cooling things off, Stacy Christine showed us how Balearic is done, with slow, slinky and sensual selections that had the dance floor entranced. Trans girls took turns dancing on the table beside her CDJs, the greatest blessing a DJ can receive, before flocking to watch Por Detroit founder Kodemul's virtuosic fingers spin a somehow seamless range of techno, guaracha, merengue house, fast breaks and amped-up Mexican classics.

Finally, husband-and-wife duo Heidi and Lovefingers took us home on the festival's only late-night ride. It was a joyride, the pair cheekily swirling manic melodies with monologues and the occasional crowd pleaser. As we danced on a promontory jutting out into the ocean, DFA's remix of "Dare" by Gorillaz soundtracked a pastel sunrise splashed with copious tears and kisses.

So yes, we had fun. We learned, we transformed. But what of our impact? The colonial dynamics of a mostly gringo festival in Mexico are pressing and often ugly, but too complex to dissect here. The bartenders, boat drivers and support staff I talked to all felt warmly toward the organisers and attendees, seeming to enjoy connecting with such colourful queers. The Mexico City becadas, while at times bothered by the pervasive cis gays and logistical hurdles, went home unanimously happy, having claimed what Marin called trans people's "right to party": to take refuge from "this Latin American reality where we risk our lives to be ourselves" in "memories of love and happiness."

House of Peaches' Gabriel Valenzuela Trejo had no notes, calling the festival "a total fantasy. We need more spaces like that." On the other hand, Culi Paradise told me her Kiki House had felt "neglected" by the Somos organisers. That local queens and the Mexico City becadas were often left to wrangle complex logistics on their own is a sad reminder of what we already know: trans people can't count on nobody but us—even more true in places like Puerto Vallarta, where the Paradises led a recent march to demand Monkeypox vaccines.

Nonetheless, Culi Paradise called Somos one of the greatest experiences of their life. "I've never felt so safe and full of love for people I just met, people I knew I was supposed to be with, who would take care of me and help me if needed. I'm grateful to know that I now have family in other parts of the world." Their words so befit my own safe, loving and care-filled experience at the festival that I was reminded of the Spanish meaning of somos: "We are."

US nonprofit DanceSafe offers a drug-checking service, as well as substance education.