Building Community in Popoyo: What an Intimate Turnout Taught Me
Last night, as two of my friends and co-creators of SoulTribe Sunday and I prepared the cacao and set up the altar for our monthly gathering here in Popoyo, we found ourselves wondering: Was anyone actually going to show up?
Ticket sales had been slow. To make matters worse, there were two birthday parties happening that same night, and many of the people who would normally join us had plans to be there instead.
As we continued setting up for the evening—ecstatic dance, cacao, sound healing, sauna, cold plunge, and our family-style potluck dinner—we started talking about something much bigger than ticket sales:
How do we build real community in a place like Popoyo, where so many of us have intentionally chosen lives built around freedom, flexibility, and going with the flow?
And it got us talking about a bigger question:
How do we build community in the age of technology—especially in a place where everyone wants to stay fluid and go with the flow?
We can ask people to book in advance. And we do.
But most people would rather pay at the door. Because, you know... what if a birthday comes up? What if the waves are firing? What if something else sounds good that day?
And then there’s the fact that we’re in Popoyo, Nicaragua.
A lot of us came here because we rejected, at least in some form, the conventional 9-to-5 lifestyle in favor of something a little freer and more laid-back. Many people only live here for six months of the year. People come and go.
And, of course, there’s surf.
Surf has a funny way of overriding whatever else you thought you were doing that day.
So again: How do we build community here?
Because community requires something that our increasingly fluid lives don’t always encourage: consistency.
And I think we need that consistency more than ever.
We live in a time when we’re constantly connected, yet loneliness is everywhere. We can communicate with hundreds of people without ever really being with anyone.
Real community asks something different of us.
Community Is a Co-Creation
Community isn’t something we can expect to magically be there and take care of us whenever we’re lonely or feeling low.
We have to participate in creating it.
I think of it a little like a garden. You can’t ignore it for months and then walk outside expecting tomatoes.
You have to nurture it.
Sometimes that means showing up when you’re a little tired.
Sometimes it means going by yourself because your friend canceled at the last minute.
Sometimes it means introducing yourself to someone you don’t know.
It requires curiosity. Compassion. Vulnerability.
And yes, sometimes a little effort.
Before SoulTribe started that evening, the three of us talked about what we would do if hardly anyone came.
And we all arrived at essentially the same conclusion:
We’d do it anyway.
We believe this is something we need. We believe it’s something our community needs. And we’re willing to keep showing up every month—even when turnout is low.
We also decided that whoever did show up would probably be exactly who needed to be there.
Maybe a small gathering wasn’t a bad thing.
Maybe sometimes intimate is exactly what community needs to be.
And Then... Fewer Than 10 People Showed Up
Including our guest DJ.
And guess what?
The energy was fantastic.
Everyone contributed something to what unfolded that night.
People danced. Shook. Played. Laughed. Hooted and hollered.
Someone tied a piece of driftwood to the rope where the hammock usually hangs, and suddenly grown adults were taking turns running and swinging from it like monkeys. Myself included.
One guy from the Netherlands turned a pot into a drum.
At one point, one attendee, and then another, climbed onto the concrete kitchen island and started dancing—because, why not? Free will for the win.
Others slipped away for a dip in the cold plunge, stopped to pet the cat, or poured themselves another cup of heart-opening cacao.
Everyone was a performer and everyone was an audience member.
Everyone’s energy became part of the experience.
And somewhere in the dancing, cacao, ridiculous monkey-swinging, sound healing, and spontaneous kitchen-island performances, something beautiful happened.
What We Heard in the Sharing Circle
At the end of the evening, we gathered in a circle and gave everyone a chance to share a few words about how they were feeling.
The responses were remarkable.
People talked about how grateful they were to have a space where they felt safe enough to be their full selves. A place where they could express themselves freely, without needing alcohol to loosen up or let their guard down.
They talked about being playful. About relaxing. About connecting with themselves on a deeper level. About feeling comfortable enough to simply be exactly who they were in that moment.
And as I listened to everyone share, I realized that this was exactly what we had been talking about before the evening began.
This was why we were doing it.
It wasn’t about how many people bought tickets.
It was about creating a space where people could put down their armor for a few hours, connect with themselves and each other, and feel like they belonged.
This Is Community
By the end of the night, I felt like I’d shared something meaningful with these people.
Half of them had been strangers to me a few hours earlier.
But somehow, they felt a little more like family.
And I thought:
Oh. This is it.
This is community.
Not necessarily a packed event.
Not a certain number of tickets sold.
Not hundreds of people in a WhatsApp group.
It’s people choosing to show up and be present with one another.
It’s allowing yourself to be a little weird.
A little playful.
A little vulnerable.
It’s contributing your energy instead of waiting for someone else to create the experience for you.
It’s co-creation in all of its strange and beautiful forms.
That night, I slept better than I had in weeks.
Maybe that shouldn’t have surprised me.
There is something deeply grounding about belonging. About being fully present with other humans and feeling safe enough to drop your guard, move your body, be silly, connect, and simply be.
This morning, our DJ messaged the group chat to thank everyone. He said he’d woken up feeling happy and clearheaded.
I knew exactly what he meant.
So yes—we’ll keep hosting SoulTribe Sunday in Popoyo every month.
Maybe sometimes there will be 50 people.
Maybe sometimes there will be eight.
Either way, we’ll keep showing up.
Because if we want community, we have to help create it.
And sometimes the people who show up are exactly the people who were meant to be there.