An editorial by The Tulum Times
There was a Tulum made not of walls and wristbands, but of mornings that began with salt on your skin and the sun rising like a promise. You didn’t need to ask permission to exist there. You walked barefoot from your room, or a tent, or a hammock, down paths still wild with sand and roots, and the ocean waited for you as if it had been dreaming of your arrival. It asked for nothing but your presence.
Families gathered with towels and fruit and old radios. Strangers shared shade under the same palm. There was music, sometimes from a speaker someone brought, sometimes from a guitar someone strummed without knowing all the chords. There were moments of stillness, and also of laughter that rose and fell like the tide. Nobody timed your stay. Nobody charged you for sitting with the breeze. It was not perfect, but it was real.
That Tulum still lingers in memory like the scent of copal smoke at dusk: earthy, sacred, ephemeral. But memory is not permanent. And what has replaced that Tulum did not come as a storm, it came as a slow tide. A ten-dollar fee. Then twenty. Then, a permit to park. Then a fence “for protection.” Then a gate. Then a guard. Then a wristband, not unlike a leash. Each change is too small to scream about. Each shift defended as “order,” or “progress,” or “security.” But call it what it is: erosion. Not of sand, but of soul.
The name of this pattern is not modernity. It is not tourism. It is greed, dressed up as improvement, whispered, never declared. It doesn’t knock down the house; it changes the locks, one by one, until you find yourself standing outside, realizing it’s no longer yours.
And now we are here, at the edge of 2025, on the cusp of yet another high season, and the question is no longer whether Tulum has changed. The question is: what are we willing to accept in its place?
Because paradise, once ticketed and gated, stops being paradise. It becomes a product. And we, its former guests, are now consumers, or worse, intruders.
But memory is not without power. And collective memory, held with care and courage, can be a form of resistance. Perhaps not to restore what was, but to protect what remains.
And maybe, just maybe, to imagine again a place where the sea asks for nothing, and gives everything.
When the Price of Paradise Becomes Its Collapse
At first, it looked like a triumph.
The kind of change you toast to. New hotels with glass facades reflecting the jungle. New restaurants promise “culinary journeys” rather than just food. New slogans about luxury, privacy, and curated experiences. Success, it seemed, had arrived.
But then the numbers began whispering a different story. Prices soared, not with the grace of progress, but with the haste of extraction. Five-star rates, yes. But five-star services? Not quite. The streets were still flooded with the first heavy rain, and whole sections of the town vanished into darkness each night. The taxis remained sporadic, the public transport skeletal. And slowly, almost tenderly, visitors did the math: If you charge like Paris, people expect Paris.
And Tulum, for all its charm, is not Paris. Nor should it be.
By mid-2025, the illusion cracked wide open.
Merchants near the archaeological zone called this summer one of the worst in living memory, worse even than the ghost-season of the pandemic. Only six out of every ten stores survived with their doors still open. Boats that once sailed with laughter and snorkels now returned half-empty, engines humming in defeat. Tour operators, once jubilant, now wore faces heavy with worry.
The numbers in the transport sector told their own quiet tragedy. Daily ridership between Tulum and Playa del Carmen dropped by more than 50%. Not because people didn’t want to come, but because something sacred had shifted. When a region that lives by movement starts standing still, no economic chart is needed. You can feel the stillness in your chest.
And these losses? They aren’t statistics. They’re stories.
They are chefs sent home early. They are guides waiting hours for tourists who never arrive. They are waiters folding empty napkins in half-empty restaurants. They are a thousand small heartbreaks stitched into the everyday.
But perhaps the greatest loss is invisible. It lives in the moment a visitor feels no longer welcome, but processed. When a price feels insultingly detached from the experience. When beauty begins to feel commodified, and not shared. That feeling lingers, and it leaves a scar. People remember being taken for granted. And they do not return.
Because true paradise isn’t just about palm trees and cocktails. It’s about mutual respect. A place that welcomes you not as a client, but as a guest. A place that holds itself with dignity and extends that dignity to others.
And when that spirit fades, no number of luxury rooftops can bring it back.
The taxi ride that became a warning
For many travelers, the story of Tulum does not begin with the ocean.
It begins in the back seat of a car, windows half-down, sun heavy on the dashboard, and a driver who names a price not with logic, but with opportunism. What should be a routine, uneventful ride, a simple welcome to a beautiful place, has become, instead, a quiet ordeal.
No meters. No receipts. No consistency. Just a fare pulled from thin air, quoted as if the road itself had changed value overnight.
And here lies the paradox: a town that markets serenity begins by offering stress. A destination that sells itself as easy and open delivers, first, the sense of being cornered. It doesn’t take much. One overpriced, argumentative ride is enough to unravel months of crafted branding. One bad welcome, and suddenly the turquoise waters feel a little colder.
This issue doesn’t stop at the edge of town. It stretches all the way to the tarmac of Cancún’s airport, where, earlier this year, reports of 10,000-peso rides triggered a wave of public outrage. The governor responded with promises of regulation, even reaching out for federal assistance. But promises, like scenic ads and glowing reviews, are not protection. Outcomes are.
And the outcome, for too many, is distrust at first contact.
Imagine this: you’ve spent months saving, planning, dreaming of this trip. And before you’ve seen a single palm tree, you’re negotiating like a hostage. That first ride sets a tone. It whispers: here, anything can happen, and no one will help you.
And that whisper echoes. It follows the visitor to the hotel check-in, to the dinner table, to the souvenir shop. Once you feel unprotected, it’s hard to feel enchanted. Because tourism, at its core, is not just about places, it’s about being welcomed. And exploitation is not a welcome.
This isn’t just about rides. It’s about the message they send. It’s about the invisible cost of feeling taken advantage of. When travelers begin their experience with anxiety instead of awe, with suspicion instead of trust, they carry that feeling through every sunset, every tour, every step in the sand.
A destination that wants loyalty must first offer respect.
And a place that forgets how to receive its guests… risks forgetting how to keep them.
Safety Is Not a Luxury
Before beauty, before service, before even comfort, there is trust.
And when a destination loses that, no amount of turquoise water or jungle retreats can fill the gap.
Trust is what lets a visitor breathe easy in a new land. It’s the quiet confidence that if something goes wrong, someone will help. That the people in uniform are there to protect, not to profit. That the laws are for everyone, not tools for extortion.
But in Tulum, that foundation has been eroding for years.
The stories are not isolated anymore. They’re not rumors passed in whispers or cautionary posts buried deep in travel forums. They’ve become familiar. Arbitrary stops. Sudden “fines” paid in cash. Threats that sound more like demands. Many travelers, even the most generous in spirit, leave not with souvenirs, but with warnings for those who might come next.
And how can we blame them?
In March 2025, the city’s own head of security, José Roberto Rodríguez Bautista, was killed during an operation. National outlets covered the story in grim detail. It wasn’t just a crime, it was a message. When the person responsible for protecting the city becomes a victim of the violence he was meant to fight, the illusion of safety collapses for everyone.
How do you ask a tourist to feel safe in a place where the protectors are under siege?
How do you ask locals to trust a system that cannot even protect its own core?
These are not abstract questions. They carry weight, in bookings canceled, in reputations damaged, in a quiet shift of energy that turns curiosity into caution.
And when a traveler begins to feel that law enforcement is something to fear, not rely on, the damage cuts deeper than any negative review. It becomes a global conversation, one that echoes long after headlines fade. It paints a place as volatile, unpredictable, and unsafe.
This is not a call for perfection. Every destination faces its battles. But the bare minimum, the sacred promise, is that power will not be abused. That a visitor will not be extorted. That an encounter with the police will not feel like a gamble.
Because if a town cannot guarantee lawful, respectful, and accountable interactions with authority, then it cannot ask people to return.
And perhaps more importantly, it cannot ask its own people to stay.
When Paradise Becomes Pay-Per-View
If you want to understand what’s happening in Tulum, not in spreadsheets or statements, but in spirit, look at the beach.
Better yet, try to reach it.
In theory, the coastline belongs to everyone. By Mexican law, the beaches are public goods, written into national identity like maize and marimbas. But in Tulum, the reality has slowly, silently mutated. Access now comes with caveats: fences, gates, wristbands, and whispered instructions to “use the back entrance.”
It didn’t happen all at once. The changes arrived like the tide, incrementally, until the sand under your feet wasn’t yours anymore.
And now, in the name of conservation, even the jungle has been bureaucratized. The creation of Jaguar National Park, a promising ecological effort on paper, brought with it not just protections, but new checkpoints, new regulations, and, for many visitors, a fresh round of fees. The message? Nature is sacred… but not necessarily free.
The tension has reached the surface.
Earlier this year, the mayor of Tulum accused the park’s managing operator of breaking public access agreements. In response, more than a dozen hotels and beach clubs rushed to announce they would open access freely, no entrance fees, no forced consumption. It was a gesture, perhaps genuine, perhaps strategic. But behind it was something deeper: a recognition that the public had reached a limit.
Even Congress took note. A federal commission advanced a proposal that seeks to guarantee permanent, unrestricted, and free access to all beaches, including free weekly entry to protected zones. It was, at last, an acknowledgment of something obvious but inconvenient:
The sea cannot be privatized without a fight.
Because when a child asks why they have to pay to touch the water, there are no good answers. Just excuses dressed as policy.
And here lies the real cost, not in pesos, but in something more fragile: trust, wonder, and belonging. Once a beach becomes a transaction, it stops being a sanctuary. Once the ocean is behind a paywall, the soul of a place begins to recede like a vanishing tide.
What made Tulum magical wasn’t luxury. It was the radical idea that beauty could be shared, not sold. That the sea belonged to no one, and therefore, to everyone.
To forget that is not just a policy failure. It is a moral one.
A New Door to an Empty House
You can build a new airport. You can paint murals, throw festivals, and launch digital campaigns with drone shots and hashtags. But none of it matters if the unspoken contract between a place and its visitors has already been broken.
A runway is not a remedy. An airport is only a door. And if what lies beyond that door is chaos, if the town is flooded, the streets dim, the prices surreal, and the sense of care absent, then the door becomes an invitation to disappointment. Worse: a trap.
Tulum now stands at that threshold.
Local guides and small business owners aren’t mincing words anymore. They call it a crisis. They see the empty tables, the tour cancellations, the quiet days that once thundered with movement. And yet, from behind polished desks and press briefings, the narrative still strains to be “positive.”
But numbers are not swayed by optimism. They’re blunt instruments of reality. They tell stories not of spin, but of survival. Of the hotels that didn’t make it. Of streets still waiting for promised repairs. Of “development plans” that never made it past the press release.
It’s not that improvement is impossible. It’s that real change is not photogenic.
It doesn’t happen at ribbon-cuttings or in ceremonial tweets. Real change looks boring: streetlights that stay on, buses that arrive, roads that don’t flood with every storm. It’s verifiable, not aspirational. It’s measured in trust restored, not headlines earned.
Because travelers may be dreamers, but they are not fools. They don’t come back for smoke and mirrors. They return to places where the welcome is honest and the experience lives up to the promise.
And right now, Tulum is promising things it no longer delivers.
Until that changes, until the house behind the new door is clean, lit, and ready to receive, the airport will remain just that: a door. Impressive, perhaps. But ultimately empty.
The Tulum We Deserve
Imagine this.
You arrive on a Friday night. Not with suspicion or strategy, but with lightness. Because you’ve heard that here, in this version of Tulum, the welcome is real.
At dawn, you walk toward the sea.
There’s no guard blocking the path. No cashier interrupts the breeze. Just a clear, public sign with open hours and safety info. A gate, yes, but one that counts people for conservation, not for commerce. On Sundays, as the law intends, entrance to protected beaches is free. Children run past without hesitation. Adults smile because order here doesn’t feel like control. It feels like care.
And the hotels? They honor what was always a promise: free access to the beach. Not in fine print, not begrudgingly, but proudly, corridors published online, signposted at receptions, available without negotiation. The old argument over who owns the sea ends the moment no one tries to own it.
You leave the beach and flag a taxi.
It has a meter. It works. The rate is fair, visible, and predictable. If something feels off, you snap a photo of the permit and report it in an app that actually responds. The city dashboard tells you if your complaint led to a fine or a fix. Drivers like it too. No fights, no guessing, more rides, more peace. Even airport fares are posted in bold at the exit. No whispered numbers in parking lots. Just clarity.
You walk through the town.
Police greet you, not from fear of a camera, but from pride in new norms. Body cams are standard. Stops and citations are logged, summarized, and published monthly. Data, not drama. If someone crosses a line, there’s a process. And it works. The headlines about assassinations and extortion fade, not because they’re ignored, but because they’ve been replaced by trust slowly earned.
The streets are lit. The drains work. The intersections speak your language. The city budget is online and legible. You can track how much was spent on lighting, on trash pickup, and on cleaning. Not because it’s flashy, but because transparency isn’t a luxury. It’s the floor beneath shared dignity.
Restaurants list final prices. No surprises, no schemes. They compete on flavor, not deception. You don’t leave feeling lucky, you leave feeling respected.
And on the business side?
Visitors return. Locals stay. Spending rises not by pressure, but by pleasure. Word of mouth shifts, quietly but surely. Occupancy rates follow sentiment. No slogan needed. The place markets itself.
Because when the sea is open, the prices are honest, the taxis fair, and the police accountable, Tulum stops being a brand, and becomes a community.
This is not a fantasy. It’s not utopia. It’s a blueprint. These tools already exist. In other cities. In other departments. In our own laws.
What’s missing is not innovation.
What’s missing is will.
What’s missing is respect.
And the beauty of respect is that once it’s real, once it’s lived, it doesn’t need to be sold. It’s felt.
Tulum Doesn’t Need Reinvention, It Needs to Remember
People didn’t fall in love with Tulum because of a logo, a hashtag, or a perfectly edited drone shot.
They fell in love because of how it felt.
Because of the morning air, warm and alive before the sun rose too high.
Because ofthe water that didn’t cost to touch.
Because of conversations after midnight, unhurried and barefoot.
Because you could just be, without needing to swipe, scan, show a wristband, or ask permission.
That’s the memory that lives in hearts across continents. And that’s the same memory now slipping away.
What keeps people from returning isn’t just sargassum, or storms, or the rising cost of flights. It’s something harder to name and harder to fix: the sense that the place turned on them.
That, which once felt open, now feels transactional.
That the welcome has been replaced by a calculation.
That Tulum, once shared, now feels owned, and not by the people.
And in 2025, we’ve seen the results.
Public transport numbers plummeted. Shops around the ruins shut their doors. Beach clubs scrambled to open access again, not from generosity, but because they had to. Congress began moving proposals not to advance rights, but simply to reaffirm what the law already promised.
These are not isolated events. They are coordinates on a map, a clear, painful map that shows where we are, how we got here, and, yes, how we could still leave.
Now comes the real test: winter.
The high season.
The mirror.
Those with power, public and private, can double down on short-term gain, one more season of squeezing before the well runs dry. Or they can choose the harder, better path:
- Real public access to the beach
- Transparent, fair transport
- Accountable police
- Clean streets that work when it rains
- Prices that match reality
- Data that’s public, plain, and trustworthy
It won’t fix things overnight. But it will be felt. It will be visible.
This isn’t written in anger. It’s written out of urgency, and out of hope.
Because Tulum doesn’t need a rebrand. It doesn’t need a new myth.
What it needs is to honor the promises that once made it special.
The promise that the sea belongs to everyone.
That trust is built in daily choices, not in slogans.
That dignity, not profit, makes a place worth returning to.
And here’s the beautiful thing about people:
When they feel respected, they come back.
They always do.