The Best Mexican Christmas in Jail

The night I broke into the Tulum Ruins wasn’t about rebellion. It was about reverence. It was Christmas Eve, and I wasn’t chasing adrenaline—I was chasing the divine. Chasing time. Chasing the soft electricity of a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” I told Mike, as techno music pulsed across the beach behind us like sacred basslines from another planet. We weren’t just wandering tourists anymore. We had crossed a threshold.

Earlier that day, I’d swum to the ruins alone. Not because it was brave, but because I couldn’t help it. Something in me needed to touch the bones of the past with no rope between us, no fee, no crowd. The ocean tossed me around like it had questions. The ruins didn’t answer—but they welcomed me.

That night, I was ready to go back. Properly. Illegally. Sacredly. I rallied Mike, Paqco, and Alexandra. At 11pm, we slipped away from the pulse of the beach and made our way through the trees toward the silhouette of history.

The entrance was locked, of course. But the barred steel exit gate? It had gaps—one of those cosmic loopholes left by either bad planning or divine permission. We climbed. One by one. No hesitation. No turning back. The second we landed inside, the ruins greeted us like we had been expected.

The city stretched out beneath the full moon—ancient stone glowing silver, whispering secrets only the wind could understand. We crossed the ropes that blocked us earlier that day like they were lines in sand, not rules carved in stone. We were no longer outsiders.

We were pilgrims returned to a homeland we had never known.

I touched the stone of what was once a home, maybe a temple. My hand tingled. Time folded. These ruins didn’t feel dead. They felt paused. They felt like breath held in the lungs of the Earth.

The Castillo—modest in height but grand in spirit—stood quietly at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the Caribbean. We climbed it last. The steps were steep and uneven, but every step felt ceremonial. As we reached the top, the sea opened up below us and the city unfurled behind.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. This was the kind of silence that says everything.

I sat inside the Castillo, found a stone ledge, folded my legs, and meditated. There was no ayahuasca, no shrooms, no DMT. Just breath, presence, and the sound of waves moving through a narrow lookout hole in the back wall like the Earth whispering through a keyhole.

This was the high.

The plan was to return the next night and sleep inside the ruins. But by morning, everyone had backed out. Everyone but me. Then Vesa showed up—just arriving in Tulum. Over lunch I told him the story, laid out the vision. And he said exactly what I needed to hear.

“I’m down.”

At 11pm sharp, we made our way back. Same route. Same door. Same climb. But this time, the universe had something else in store.

Vesa brought camera equipment—he wanted to shoot an interview inside the Castillo. I didn’t object. This was history. Not just old history—ours. We set up the light. We talked about reality. Consciousness. The illusion of the physical. How this moment might be the realest thing either of us had ever felt.

And then…

“Hola, hola amigo.”

The voice shot through the chamber like lightning through still water. We froze. My heart leapt straight into my throat. For a split second, I wondered if the ruins were speaking back. But no. It was a guard. A man with a flashlight and a badge.

We were caught.

Handcuffed. Escorted out like two kids who stayed too long at the temple. Hauled into the Tulum police station, where concrete floors replaced stone steps, and the echo of waves was replaced by buzzing fluorescents.

And you know what?

I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t afraid. I was fulfilled.

Vesa and I spent Christmas morning in a cold jail cell, wrapped in sweatshirts, trying to find sleep on concrete. They forgot to check one of my pockets, so my phone survived the search. I texted Femi in Baltimore:

“I’m in a Mexican jail. Merry Christmas.”

We sang “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” through barred windows to the empty street like monks who had found religion in absurdity.

Hours passed. No charges. No judgment. Just waiting. The guards had to confirm nothing was damaged in the ruins. They didn’t know they had arrested caretakers, not criminals.

By 3pm, they gave us a choice—pay 1,500 pesos or stay 24 hours. We paid the fine. Walked into the sunlight like two reborn gods.

Was it worth it?

Every second.

Because we didn’t break the ruins. We broke the illusion. We tore down the invisible wall between what is sacred and what is possible. We stepped into legend.

And we came back with the story.