A Letter from a Dissatisfied Shangri-La Festival Attendee

Dear Customer Relations,

I am addressing this letter to your Customer Relations Team since (a) I am a customer and (b) our relationship is in hot water.

Since your company took down its social media accounts on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, Snapchat, YouTube, Tumblr, Pinterest, and TikTok, you have left me no choice but to write a physical letter. And even though I’m from Gen Z, I know how to address an envelope.

I recently had the misfortune of attending the first-ever Shangri-La Festival in the Bahamas. From the moment that I first heard about it, I was enthralled. It looked like the FOMO event of the decade. The gourmet dining, the supermodels in bikinis, the pristine beaches, the treasure hunt, the live music… seriously, your marketing team is so good, they could sell somebody the Eiffel Tower. More than once.

Being a 21-year-old male fan of popular music (with a rather large crush on Selena Gomez), I thought it would be a nice anniversary splurge for me and my girlfriend, Sydney (who also has a crush on Selena Gomez), to attend. Not wanting to look like a cheapskate, I purchased the full Shangri-La Couple’s Package at a price of $6900. Oh yes, the sexual connotations weren’t lost on me. The luxury villa, the couple’s catamaran, the discounted spa access with the complimentary couple’s massage, the private yacht ride to the deserted Cupid’s Cay… I mean, there might as well have been a tagline that said, “If you purchase this package, you will get Shangri-Laid. 100% satisfaction guaranteed.”

And like your everyday, horny, college-age sucker with money to burn and a developing prefrontal cortex, I paid up.

The sun showed no mercy as we waited on the tarmac at Miami Airport. We could have cooked hamburger patties on the ground (which, considering what awaited us, would have been very fortuitous). I thought my eyes were deceiving me as our charter plane taxied down the runway. What was supposed to be a luxury jet liner was in fact your average commercial plane. Inside, it was below economy class. I’ve been more comfortable sitting in a dentist’s chair than on that plane. The seats were so small, my girlfriend was practically on my lap for the entire flight (which actually wasn’t a bad thing). There were no food or drinks to speak of. I should have taken it for the omen that it was.

When we were making our descent into Johnson’s Cay, I thought that the pilot was pulling into the wrong island. The one advertised on the Shangri-La website was about half the size and didn’t have any civilization on it whatsoever, having belonged to Hugh Hefner.

“Sydney, something’s wrong,” I said. “This looks nothing like the island on the website. This one’s inhabited.”

“Lighten up, baby,” Sydney said. “We’ll have fun once we land.”

She was actually right. The moment that we landed, we were ushered to a local Bahamian restaurant right on the water. While it wasn’t five-star dining, it was rather pleasant. I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich with pineapple chunks. We dangled our feet off the dock while somebody piped music out of a Bluetooth speaker. Sydney changed into her bikini. Life was good.

That was when two things stuck out to me. The first was that the restaurant didn’t accept Shangri-La Bucks, which was supposed to be the sole method of payment on the island. Per festival instructions, we loaded more than $1400 onto a pair of RFID bracelets that were touted as a method of cashless payment. Unfortunately, there was no Wi-fi to speak of on the island.

The second thing was that nobody came to pick us up from the cafe… after six hours of waiting. Eventually, we resorted to calling a local bus company to take us to the festival site. Given that this was the inaugural year, I decided to let everything slide. It would all be worth it when we were snuggling up in our private villa, sipping champagne, listening to Selena Gomez serenade us.

Oh, if only we knew what was to come. For we were not Chad and Sydney, vacationers at the luxurious Shangri-La Festival. We were Adam and Eve right before they got the boot from Eden.

When I got my first glimpse of the site, my heart stopped. A gaping pit formed in my stomach. I folded my hands in prayer. Please, please, please let us be passing through. Don’t stop the bus, just keep driving…

We pulled to a stop.

“Is… is this it?” Sydney asked.

I was speechless. I blinked several times, hoping that the scene in front of me would morph into a beach with white sand, private villas on the water, and naked supermodels.

“Oh my God,” I said.

Trash littered the site. Garbage bags, cardboard boxes, pieces of Styrofoam. There were more rocks than there were grains of sand. What were supposed to be luxury villas were actually pyramid-like tents that looked like they would blow over in 5 MPH winds. No way did they have indoor plumbing or electricity. The concierge desk looked like a half-finished lemonade stand with no occupant. Two porta-potties were stationed at opposite ends of the site. At least they had both sexes covered.

“NO! TURN AROUND!” a woman yelled from the back.

The bus driver was beside himself with mirth. I will never forget seeing his face in the rear-view mirror when I asked him if we were in the right place. His grin stretched from ear to ear. His belly jiggled as he laughed.

“Yes, sir. This is all yours.”

My legs shook as we got off the bus. A crowd of angry people gathered in the middle of the site. There was no food, no water, no shelter, and no organization. Clearly, the staff knew what was about to ensue and flew the coop.

In an attempt to salvage the situation, “Shangri-La Girls” in orange bikinis walked through the crowd and literally poured champagne directly into attendees’ mouths. Given that there was no food in sight, I knew that this was tempting fate.

The sun started to set. We had been knocked down to the bottom of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Food, water, and shelter beckoned. Eventually, the crowd broke apart as people rushed for the tents. Sydney and I managed to claim one only to discover that it had no bed. Still, it was better than nothing.

Now, I would like to emphasize that we are not bad people. We recycle, we donate plasma, we volunteer for our local soup kitchen, we pay our taxes, and we respect our elders.

The festival brought out the worst in us.

“What are we going to do?” Sydney asked. “Are we really going to sleep on the dirt?”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Leave this to me.”

I knew what I had to do. Leaving her behind, I crept over to a neighboring tent. Somebody had already claimed it and left their luggage there. I actually moaned in delight when I saw their mattress. It looked as thin as cardboard and wasn’t long enough for me, but compared to the ant-infested dirt, it looked like a piece of heaven.

My heart raced. Adrenaline zipped through my veins. I took a deep breath.

“Sorry not sorry,” I said.

I did what had to be done. I committed grand theft mattress. Don’t judge me. You would have done the same. I wasn’t about to let my girlfriend sleep on the ground. She never asked me how I got the mattress, and I never told her.

As darkness fell, I went out again to scrounge for food while Sydney stayed back at the tent and kept watch over our ill-gotten gains. It took me almost an hour to find the hut that was supposed to have our “gourmet meals.” Inside was a table with a few Styrofoam boxes stacked on it. I snatched one up and opened it.

It contained two rolls with butter, a single piece of lettuce, and a few grapes. I must admit that for $6900, I expected a bit more. Some utensils would have been nice. Maybe a few bottles of water, too.

I looked in the other containers. One of them didn’t have lettuce. Another had strawberries instead of grapes. The whole experience made me think that we were fighting World War III and were rationing food as a result. This was all we were allowed to have.

I sighed. The situation was unsalvageable. I grabbed another container for Sydney and exited the hut. The moment that I stepped outside, I saw one of the tents ablaze. White flames towered over the site. Smoke billowed into the air.

“What the… holy shit.”

I gulped. A chill slinked down my spine. Our situation had gone from inconvenient to dangerous.

“It’s like Burning Man, mother-fucker! Just like Burning Man!”

A gentleman in a blue speedo sauntered across the site. He grasped a half-empty bottle of tequila.  A pair of sunglasses dangled from one ear lobe. He pounded his fist against his chest like a baboon.

Indeed, it was like Burning Man, mother-fucker. There was immediacy, radical self-expression (as evidenced by the drunk orangutan), radical self-reliance, and participation. The only difference was that this festival was going to leave a trace.

I sprinted back to the tent. Sydney was unharmed. Our mattress and luggage were accounted for.

“Babe, did you see the fire out there?” I asked.

She nodded.  “Chad, I’m getting really worried. There isn’t any security here. Somebody could come by with a knife and steal all our luggage.”

“Or our food,” I said. “Don’t eat it all too quickly.”

I gave her a container. She opened it and stared at its contents. Her face fell. I almost told her that she had gotten lucky. Somebody gave her two helpings of lettuce.

“Well, it’s better than nothing,” she said. “Thanks, baby.”

I knew she was appreciative, but I still felt that I could have done better. We ate in silence on the mattress. The mosquitoes kept us company. I could feel the crunch of their bodies as I smacked at them on my arm. Unlike us, they were pleased as punch to be at the festival.

“You know,” she said, “maybe the bugs are edible.”

That comment felt like a dagger to the chest. She might as well have said that I have a small penis.

I had failed my girlfriend. There we were, sitting on a paper-thin mattress with a couple of rolls and a colony of mosquitoes. No delectable seafood and cocktails. No live music. No beach-front luxury accommodations. No threesome with Selena Gomez.

“Babe, you should get some sleep,” I said. “I’ll stay up and be on the lookout. This is all my fault anyway.”

“Come on,” she said. “You know that’s not true.”

“No. I should have done more research. I mean, it was the first year that they were having the festival. It wasn’t like we were going to Lollapalooza or-”

Sydney wouldn’t let me finish as she placed her hands on my cheeks. Her lips snuggled against mine. Her tongue found its way into my mouth. Molten heat rushed through my veins.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Speaking of tents…”

“Fuck… I wish we were in a private villa right now,” I said.

“Maybe next time,” she said. “Nightie night.”

She passed out at once. I stayed up and kept watch. It sounded like a rave was going on outside. I heard a glass bottle shattering on the ground followed by a girl screaming. There was even a couple screwing a few tents over. Clearly they were not turned off by the bugs, the lack of food and water, and the sanitation issues.

My eyelids grew heavy. I allowed myself a few minutes to rest my eyes…

#

I can’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember waking up. My stomach growled like a lion. A throbbing migraine took hold. I winced as I felt a searing pain in my back.

“Sleep well, baby?” I asked.

“Wonderful,” Sydney said. “Just wonderful. I can’t feel my left arm anymore. Must have slept on it wrong.”

We had no time to feel sorry for ourselves. After packing our bags, we trudged over to the shuttle point near the entrance to the site. There was already a line of people waiting in front of an overcrowded school bus. It didn’t have a driver.

I looked at Sydney. She looked at me.

“Screw this,” we said.

We hiked up the road leading out of the festival grounds and tried to hail a ride to the airport. Eventually, we found a truck driver willing to take us for $30. I almost wept in relief as we got into the scalding hot backseat. The inside of the car smelled like the driver smoked a pack of cigarettes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Amazingly, when we told him why we were there, he said that he had never heard of the festival before. But he was able to tell us a hundred different reasons why such a festival would never work on a small island in the Bahamas.

“Not enough infrastructure,” he said. “Plumbing, housing, transportation. Too many people. POOF!”

His hands made a motion like a mushroom cloud. I felt my cheeks glow with embarrassment. The more he talked, the stupider I felt. I knew that if I told him I paid $6900 to attend, he would crack a rib laughing.

A few minutes later, we made it to the airport. The building looked no bigger than a supermarket. A line stretched out through the front doors and along the sidewalk.

“Unbelievable,” I said.

“See what I mean?” the driver said. “Too many people!”

Clearly, the festival didn’t want us to ever go home. It reminded me of Charlie Sheen’s quip about paying prostitutes to leave. In our case, we had to pay to go to the festival, and we had to pay to leave. It took us all morning to get through the line. The poor lady working behind the desk looked like she was on the verge of having a full panic attack. I could see the sweat stains on her suit jacket. Her hands shook as she wrote out our boarding passes.

“Here are your tickets,” she said. “Your flight leaves at 3:40 PM.”

After we found a spot to sit down, the waiting game resumed, broken only by an announcement over the loudspeakers.

MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE… WE ARE SORRY TO INFORM YOU THAT FLIGHT #2017 WITH SERVICE TO MIAMI HAS BEEN OVERBOOKED. ANYBODY WISHING TO RELINQUISH THEIR TICKETS WILL BE PROVIDED WITH A $1000 PASS THAT CAN BE USED FOR FUTURE FLIGHTS…

The response from the crowd was predictable. The four-letter words flowed like water. Not a single person gave up his ticket. When the flight started boarding, it was as if we were on a football field and the quarterback called HIKE! People were literally knocked to the ground and trampled. Sydney had her sunglasses knocked off. I stubbed both big toes. Somehow, we made it onto the plane. Our butts weren’t going to leave our seats until we touched down in Miami.

Coincidentally, we sat next to the tequila-drinking maniac from the night before. His head leaned out into the aisle as he slept. Fortunately, he had dispensed with the speedo and wore regular clothing.

After another three hours of sitting on the tarmac while the pilot cleared up an issue with the passenger manifest, we were in the air. The crowd cheered. The Shangri-La Festival was over. We had survived.

Now, despite the fact that we went through literal hell on earth, Sydney and I feel closer as a couple than ever before. She called me the bravest boyfriend in the world for protecting her during the festival. And even though we paid $6900 to attend, we did not consummate our passion once. We made up for it once we returned home to our blessedly soft mattress and bug-free apartment.

So! I guess that’s everything. On a scale of 0-10, I would give the Shangri-La Festival a -6900. I hope you enjoyed this letter, because the next one you see will be from my lawyer. He doesn’t have my sense of humor.

Sincerely,

Chad.