The sun hung high in the sky, beating down like the angry eye of some Rastafarian god as I made my way into the heart of the beast: Reggae Fest. This wasn’t just any festival—this was Bob Marley’s turf. A place where the air was thick with the sweet scent of ganja and the rhythmic pulse of reggae music that seemed to seep into your very bones. It was a pilgrimage for the lost souls of the counterculture, a gathering of the faithful who believed in peace, love, and the healing power of a good beat.
From the moment I crossed the threshold into this psychedelic wonderland, I knew I was in for a trip. The live music started at dawn and didn’t stop until the stars twinkled overhead like cosmic confetti. Bands played one after another, each one more hypnotic than the last. The crowd swayed as one, a sea of dreadlocks and tie-dye, lost in the grooves of a timeless melody. It felt like stepping into a living, breathing version of Marley’s utopia.
As I navigated through the throngs of stoned revelers, I found myself in the middle of the Stoner Games. Now, in my previous exploits, I had judged many a contest—hot dog eating, chili cook-offs, even a Miss Nude America pageant—but nothing could have prepared me for this. I was a judge, but had no clue what I was supposed to be looking for. As far as I could tell, everyone was a winner because everyone walked away stoned.
There were events like the Fastest Joint Rolling Contest, where participants moved with the deliberate precision of a sloth on Valium. Watching these meticulous artisans work their magic was like observing a high-stakes operation in an opium den. Time itself seemed to stretch and warp around them, the crowd holding its collective breath until the final product was revealed in a puff of smoke.
The Dab Derby was a spectacle of dab rig contraptions filled with smoke, their participants emerged like warriors from a hazy inferno. The rules were simple: rip the fastest dab. The lung capacity on display was something to behold, leaving trails of thick, aromatic smoke in their wake.
And let’s not forget the Weed Olympics, where balance beams were traded for build a bong. Athletes competed in event by building a bong out of random parts. The competition was fierce, yet friendly, with each contestant cheering on their fellow participants, embodying the spirit of camaraderie that defines this subculture.
Live glass blowing was another highlight, with artists transforming molten blobs into intricate pieces of art, their faces bathed in the glow of their fiery craft. It was mesmerizing, like watching a wizard conjure something beautiful out of thin air. Each piece was a testament to the skill and creativity that thrives in this subculture. The artisans moved with a practiced grace, their hands deftly shaping and molding the molten glass into stunningly detailed pipes, bongs, and sculptures that sparkled in the sunlight.
“FREE DABS!”
In the midst of all this, the legend himself, Dabbin-Dad held court. This connoisseur of concentrates handed out free dabs to anyone brave enough to partake. His setup was a magnet for the curious and the seasoned alike, drawing a line of eager festival-goers ready to take their experience to the next level.
As the day melted away, the music grew louder and the air thicker with the fragrant haze of burning herb. People danced like they were possessed by the spirits of long-dead rockstars, their bodies moving in unison with the relentless beat. The main stage was a vortex of sound and light, with bands playing covers of reggae classics and original tunes that paid homage to the greats of the genre.
The festival grounds were a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds. Vendors sold everything from hand-crafted jewelry to vegan edibles, their stalls draped in vibrant tapestries and lit by strings of fairy lights. Food vendors offered an array of culinary delights, catering to every taste and dietary preference imaginable. The smell of cheese burgers mingled with the scent of patchouli and cannabis.
Reggae Fest was more than just a festival. It was a state of mind, a temporary autonomous zone where the rules of the outside world were suspended, and a new set of laws—ones written in smoke and sound—took over. It was chaos, it was beauty, it was Bob Marley’s turf, and for one unforgettable day, it was home. The memories of the music, the laughter, and the unbreakable bonds forged in the haze would linger long after the final notes had faded…
Keep it weird,
Author’s Note:
The vibrant spectacle you’ve just journeyed through is a regular creation by the group BurnNLearn. These aficionados of the counterculture organize Reggae Fest and other similar events like this all the time, bringing together music, art, and community in a haze of good vibes and creativity. If you ever find yourself in need of an escape from the mundane, keep an eye out for their next gathering. You won’t be disappointed.
Check out their website
https://burnnlearnct.com/
