What happens when paradise stops working?
This is an editorial by The Tulum Times, written from the heart of the jungle town we call home. It’s not a news report or a tourist guide, it’s a personal reflection, shaped by the sand beneath our feet, the silence between headlines, and the love we still carry for this place. What follows is not just a chronicle of change, but an invitation to feel what Tulum is becoming, and to remember what it once was.
When a town built on beauty, wellness, and escape becomes a place travelers start avoiding, not because they’ve outgrown it, but because it no longer welcomes them the way it used to?
I live in Tulum. I’ve walked its dusty roads before they were paved, I’ve swum in its cenotes when they were still known only by word of mouth, and I’ve watched, in a span of just a few years, as this jungle town turned into a global icon, and then into something else entirely. This isn’t the lament of a romantic nostalgic. It’s the view from someone who loves this place enough to see it clearly, and fears we may be losing it one short-sighted decision at a time.
Tulum’s Tourism Crisis: A Hidden Reality Behind the Beachfront Façade
Tulum, once the barefoot jewel of the Riviera Maya, has arrived at a painful crossroads. I see it every day: fewer tourists on bikes, more vacancy signs hanging awkwardly at boutique hotels that were once booked out months in advance. There’s a silence creeping in, not just from cancelled DJ sets or empty yoga domes, but from an economy that’s losing its pulse.
It’s tempting to blame external disruptions, the Air Canada strike, inflation, or geopolitical tremors, but that would be missing the point. Airlines like Delta, Spirit, and Copa didn’t start pulling out because of temporary storms. They did it because the experience no longer matches the fantasy. Because tourists, once enchanted by this jungle enclave, are leaving confused, disappointed, sometimes even angry.
In July 2025, hotel occupancy dipped to a shocking 46%. A decade ago, those same weeks would see 75% or more. I talk to hoteliers who’ve slashed staff. Bartenders who serve empty rooms. Tour guides who wait hours for a single booking. The illusion is cracking. And underneath? A fragile model stretched thin, based not on resilience but volume.
Sometimes I walk down the beach road and remember when it felt alive. Today, in some stretches, it feels like a showroom after hours. The lights are on, but no one’s really there.
Felipe Carrillo Puerto Airport: A Monument to Missed Connections
When the new airport was announced, I won’t lie, I felt hopeful. Not euphoric, but hopeful. The long road from Cancún had always been a deterrent, and I imagined an easier, smoother arrival would bring new life into town. What we got instead was a $1.5 billion mirage.
The Felipe Carrillo Puerto International Airport is beautiful. And empty. There are no direct shuttles to town. No train lines. No proper signage. No sense of hospitality, just predatory taxi drivers waiting like vultures at the exit. I’ve heard the same stories dozens of times: first-timers who feel trapped, seasoned travelers who swear they’ll never return.
For a place obsessed with design, how did we get the architecture right but forget the experience? What good is a gateway if it leads into chaos? An airport should be a bridge, not a wall. But here in Tulum, it has become a monument to our disconnect. A case study in building the future without consulting the present.
And still, no one in charge seems eager to fix it. As if admitting the failure would damage egos more than the town’s reputation. Meanwhile, flights vanish, travel influencers move on, and the international buzz begins to fade.
Rising Crime and Insecurity in Tulum: A Risk for Locals and Visitors Alike
There was a time when the worst thing that could happen in Tulum was a lost flip-flop or a flat bike tire. Now? We lock our doors early. We check over our shoulders. We read the headlines and recognize the corners they mention.
Violence has crept into the story we tell about this place. And worse, it has become part of the story we live. Since Mayor Diego Castañón took office, over 200 murders have been recorded. In 2025 alone, we’ve seen more than 30. Executions in front of tourists. Bodies wrapped in plastic. Shootings are steps away from beach clubs. This isn’t some distant dystopia. This is home.
And it’s not just the deaths, it’s the silence that follows. Investigations stall. Arrests rarely come. We talk about it in whispers, as if naming the problem might bring it closer. But it’s already here. And if we, the people who live here, feel vulnerable, what must the visitors feel?
I’ve lost count of how many friends have cancelled their plans to visit. They don’t say it outright, but I can hear it in their voices: worry. And when tourists feel fear, they don’t leave reviews, they leave for good.
It’s heartbreaking. Because this town still has the power to heal. But first, we must stop pretending it isn’t wounded.
The Taxi Cartel and the Price of Local Apathy
Of all the things that damage our reputation daily, few are as consistent and corrosive as our taxi problem. You don’t need to be a long-time resident to see it. Spend a day here, just one, and you’ll hear the same story told in twenty accents: being overcharged, harassed, threatened, or stranded.
Tulum’s taxis aren’t just expensive, they are exploitative. With no effective regulation, no digital platforms, and no accountability, what should be a convenience has become a trap. I’ve seen tourists pay more for a 10-minute ride than I used to pay in rent. And the worst part? The authorities know. We all know.
Ride-sharing services like Uber have tried to enter the market, but they’ve been repelled with resistance that feels more mafia than municipality. Drivers are threatened. Riders are left waiting. And the message is clear: the cartel rules the road.
This isn’t a minor inconvenience. It’s a metaphor for everything else going wrong. A system built not to serve, but to squeeze. And every time a visitor is extorted on their first ride from the airport, a seed of distrust is planted. That seed doesn’t grow into a five-star review. It grows into a decision never to come back.
Political Short-Sightedness: When Leadership Forgets Who It Serves
Living in Tulum, you start to notice a particular kind of disconnect, not just between tourists and reality, but between those in power and those of us on the ground. It’s not that we expect miracles from our leaders. We know the challenges are complex. But what’s disheartening is how often their priorities seem to orbit a completely different universe than the one we inhabit.
We don’t need another government-sponsored music festival. We need safe streets, working infrastructure, and clean water. We need leadership that doesn’t measure progress in press releases or ribbon-cuttings, but in the lived experience of the people who call this place home, and the travelers who keep its economy alive.
Instead, we get photo ops in front of murals while trash piles up behind municipal buildings. We get poetry readings while families are still reeling from the echoes of gunshots in tourist zones. It’s like trying to paint over a collapsing wall with Instagram-friendly colors, looks good in the moment, but does nothing to stop the rot underneath.
There’s a growing sense among locals that we’ve been reduced to background characters in a story written for investors and influencers. A curated version of Tulum is being sold to the world, one that no longer reflects the reality we live in. And the more the gap widens between performance and governance, the more this place starts to feel like a stage set: beautiful, fragile, and hollow.
Real leadership would ask different questions. What do our residents need to thrive? What do returning visitors love most about Tulum, and how do we protect that? How can growth be managed, not exploited?
But until someone in office is brave enough to listen, and humble enough to admit where we’ve failed, Tulum will keep slipping further away from itself.
What Tulum Still Has, and What It Might Lose Forever
And yet, I stay.
Not out of naivety or denial, but because I still believe there’s something here worth fighting for. Tulum isn’t just real estate and resorts. It’s mangroves and moonlight. It’s the sound of the jungle before sunrise. It’s the quiet magic of sharing coconut water with a stranger on a dirt road. It’s the memories, the people, the spirit.
But magic is not immortal. It can be buried beneath concrete. It can be suffocated by greed. It can be lost to indifference.
We are dangerously close to that threshold.
What made Tulum famous was never just its beaches. It was the feeling that you had found something unspoiled, something meaningful. That sense of freedom, of connection, to nature, to self, to others, that was the real treasure. And the irony is brutal: in trying to monetize that feeling, we’ve begun to destroy the source.
But here’s what gives me hope: it doesn’t have to end this way.
Tulum can still change course. It can remember who it was. It can protect what matters most. It can choose the slow, difficult, unglamorous work of rebuilding, not just infrastructure, but integrity.
It will require courage. It will require sacrifice. It will require the kind of leadership that doesn’t chase headlines, but builds trust. And it will require all of us, locals, investors, tourists, neighbors, to ask ourselves not just what we want from Tulum, but what we are willing to give back to it.
Because paradise isn’t a product. It’s a responsibility.
And if we want to keep it, we must start acting like it.