There’s a certain silence in Tulum that hits harder than the noise. It’s in the blocked beach paths where children no longer play, in the still water where the drainage fails, in the look of a street vendor watching tourists walk by but not stop. But even in this silence, something stubborn refuses to give in.

They say Tulum is broken. That it lost its way. But those who love it, those who’ve built lives here, not just hotels, say something else.

“Tulum isn’t dead. It’s wounded,” says Fernando Aznar Pavón, voice steady, eyes tired.

He’s not just speaking in metaphors. As president of the College of Engineers of Tulum, he’s seen it up close, roads planned without foresight, buildings rising faster than the sewage can drain, and nature slowly cornered into smaller and smaller spaces. But Aznar Pavón, like many here, hasn’t stopped believing in recovery.

“There’s still time,” he says. “We’re not talking about saving an image. We’re talking about saving a place that still has a beating heart.”

Growth with no map

For years, Tulum grew like a fever, fast, wild, and largely unchecked. The boom brought luxury resorts, boutique experiences, and international fame. But beneath the polished surface, the town’s spine began to crack: failing infrastructure, overwhelmed public services, and rising frustration from the people who live and work here.

“Everything was done without planning,” Aznar Pavón explains. “Insufficient streets. Limited drainage. Environmental negligence. But none of it is irreversible.”

In a town where resilience is part of the soil, proposals are already on the table. Some bold, some simple. A funicular system connecting the Tren Maya station to the beach. The return of public bikes. Better oversight of septic systems. Even a municipal chemical-biological unit to monitor water health.

What sounds like engineering jargon is, in reality, about dignity. About not living with sewage in the streets or fearing contamination in your tap water. About making sure that this paradise isn’t reserved for those who arrive on vacation, but also for those who raise their families here.

The beach used to belong to everyone

Twenty years ago, there were nine public access points to the beach. You didn’t need a bracelet, a booking, or a gate code. You just needed to walk. Today, most of those paths are gone.

“They were privatized, one by one,” Aznar Pavón says. “And now, many locals can’t even reach the sea they grew up with.”

The loss is more than physical. It’s emotional. It’s cultural. It’s a daily reminder of how power and money can reshape a coastline, and a community.

That’s why reclaiming public access has become a rallying cry. Not out of nostalgia, but as a step toward reclaiming balance. Toward a town that belongs to its people again.

A shared responsibility

Regidor Jorge Alberto Portilla Mánica believes the solution lies in unity, municipal, state, and federal governments working hand in hand with citizens and businesses.

“The beaches have recovered their beauty after the sargassum,” he says. “But now we must recover our direction, our culture, and our capacity to plan together.”

It’s not enough to manage crisis after crisis. Tulum needs a roadmap. And the people who know it best are starting to draw it.

Sergio González Rubiera, who leads the Mexican Association of Receptive Tourism Agencies (Amatur), reminds us that Tulum’s fame long concealed deeper flaws.

“There was no drainage. No real security. No healthcare infrastructure. And we still welcomed millions,” he says. “It’s time to stop improvising.”

He proposes a Strategic Plan for Sustainable Tourism Development, one that truly matches Tulum’s scale, both in nature and in complexity.

Hope grows in the cracks

Walk down Avenida Kukulkán and you’ll see it, small signs of pushback. A new cooperative café run by locals. A mural celebrating Mayan heritage. A teenager on a rusted bike is selling homemade jewelry to fund his school fees.

These aren’t just acts of survival. They’re acts of resistance. Of rebuilding. Of hope.

Aznar Pavón points out one last injustice: the rising cost of business licenses, now at 50,000 pesos in some cases. It’s choking the very entrepreneurs who bring flavor, identity, and warmth to the town.

“It’s not just numbers,” he says. “It’s a question of who gets to stay. Who gets to belong.”

And that’s the core of this story. It’s not about sargassum or sewage. It’s about belonging. About fighting for a version of Tulum where beauty isn’t only sold, but shared.

The Tulum Times joins that fight, not just reporting, but remembering.

Because Tulum isn’t Cancún. It’s not a brand. It’s a living place. And while it might be limping, it hasn’t lost its way entirely. Not if the people still care enough to act.

The final word, maybe not so final

“Tulum isn’t dead,” Aznar Pavón said again. “It’s just hurt. And we still have time to heal it.”

Maybe that’s the story here. Not collapse, but recovery. Not despair, but defiance. A town at war with its own success, and still dreaming of something better.

Can Tulum be saved from itself? Experts say time is running out.