Up the Yucatán

It’s hard to imagine Tulum as it was just a few decades ago: a sleepy seaside village on an otherwise empty stretch of staggeringly beautiful coastline, nothing but thick jungle and white sand lapped by bright blue Caribbean waters. The few visitors who came slept in hammocks strung between palm trees and watched in a psilocybin haze as a big white Yucatán moon rose above the pyramidal ruins of the last great Mayan city. It began with the backpackers, then the off-grid hippies, downtown artists and would-be mystics. Soon Tulum had become known as a sun-drenched New Age paradise, where travelers could turn on, tune in, drop out—or all of the above. Developers took note, buying up the coast and peppering it with newly built “eco-resorts,” hotels and bars with ever-bigger sound systems. Before long, the beach had gone mainstream.

But like the Marrakesh Medina or South Beach in the ’80s, today’s Tulum is a place of chaos, contradiction and potential. Dig beneath the surface and you’ll find the old magic remains. It’s also a perfect jumping-off point for a road trip up the Yucatán Peninsula, an enigmatic stretch of Mexico where underground caves, Mayan ruins, tropical jungle and taffy-colored colonial towns lie in wait to be explored.

City of Dawn
Tulum, Quintana Roo

To watch the sunrise over Tulum, it’s easy to see how it got its original name: Zama, meaning “City of Dawn,” is what the ancient Maya most likely called the walled city they built here on eastern-facing cliffs overlooking the sea between the 13^th and 15^th centuries. With access to land and sea trade routes, Tulum was an important city for the great Mayan civilization that once stretched across most of southeastern Mexico, all of Guatemala and Belize, and western Honduras and El Salvador, pushing art, architecture, mathematics and astronomy to levels unseen in Mesoamerica. The local population of Tulum is still largely Maya or of mixed Mayan descent, and long after the Spanish conquest, many aspects of Mayan culture live on in the lives of the people.

One of the best ways to experience living Mayan culture is through cuisine, as I learned firsthand while digging into a pumpkin tostada at Tulum Treehouse on my first night in town. The ancient Mayan diet focused on four crops: maize, squash, beans and chili peppers, all of which still hold a fundamental place of importance in contemporary Yucatecan cuisine. But like many young Mexican chefs working today, Gonzalo Cerrato Laguna takes things a step further in devising the menu for Tulum Treehouse.

The maize used to make the tostada hails from Chiapas by way of a farmer who comes every week to bring quality produce from his land. The Treehouse kitchen processes the maize on-site using an ancient Mayan technique called Nixtamal, by which the corn is soaked and cooked in an alkaline solution of limewater, then washed and hulled before grinding it into a Nixtamal dough known as “masa.” The process not only enhances the flavor and texture of the maize but also its nutritional value due to the way the proteins are broken down.

“Our kitchen is a space where we make everything from scratch,” said Gonzalo. “We don’t work with refined products, and we source from local producers who want to keep the pre-Hispanic roots,” he said, adding that most of the menu is vegan, gluten-free and incorporates many kinds of ferments.

One positive aspect of Tulum’s vastly expanded profile on the world stage is the number of excellent chefs that have set up shop here in recent years, from Eric Werner’s cultish Hartwood, which uses all-local ingredients in its decidedly non-local cuisine, to the zero-waste pre-Hispanic preparations of chefs Maya Scales and Benjamin Coe at Verdant.

But many of the most interesting new arrivals to the food scene are in the pueblo, or Tulum town, like Tú, which serves creative concoctions like risotto with dried chili, cauliflower and huitlacoche, a corn fungus used throughout Mexico, and Mestixa, where East Asian and Mexican cuisines come together in delectable inventions like shrimp tempura tacos and shitake bao buns with sesame cashew chile morita sauce, pickled cucumber, hoja santa and salted cactus fruit.

Origin of the Sky
Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve, Tulum

From the Treehouse, it’s only about a 10-minute drive along the Beach Road through the last part of the hotel zone until you reach the Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve, an astonishing 1.3-million-acre landscape of tropical forests, palm savannah, mangroves, marshes, lagoons, sandy beaches and barrier reef that provides a habitat for hundreds of species of rare flora and fauna, from jaguars and pumas to black-handed spider monkeys and American crocodiles.

Once you pass under the arch that leads into the reserve, the road becomes treacherous. Huge potholes filled with muddy rainwater cover the terrain, making it impossible for anything but an off-road vehicle to drive at faster than a crawl. On one side is endless jungle; on the other, pristine, nearly empty beach—something you are unlikely to see elsewhere on the coast of Tulum. Eventually we reached a small shack by the side of the road, where we met Mario Torres Bolio, a fly fisherman and nature guide who has been doing tours in Sian Ka’an for 40 years.

He brought us through the jungle until we reached the edge of the aquamarine Boca Paila lagoon, where we set off in a little boat, stopping at the cenotes, or sinkholes, where the manatees congregate. “They like it here because they can drink the freshwater,” said Mario as we caught glimpses of the endangered sea mammals coming up for air.

Cenotes were believed by the ancient Maya to be entrances to the underworld, and the waters within them were considered sacred. Today cenotes can be found across the Yucatán Peninsula. Some, like the ones in the lagoon, exist within larger bodies of water, but many are found surrounded by land, either fully or partially subterranean or out in the open, like Cenote Aktun Ha, or “Car Wash,” a cenote on the lush outskirts of Tulum where locals once washed their cars. Today, Aktun Ha is popular not only with daytime swimmers but also with scuba divers, who come to explore its vast underwater stalactite cave systems where speleologists found evidence of human habitation dating back millions of years.

In Mayan, Sian Ka’an means “Origin of the Sky,” and as I watched the Caribbean-clear waters touch the horizon line, it was easy to imagine that the heavens were born here. We moved toward the mangrove forest at the edge of the lagoon, passing a stone tower rising out of the water that Mario said is the ruins of an ancient tollbooth—one of 23 Mayan archaeological sites within the reserve. Then we floated into the mangrove, a dense labyrinth forming channels of blue-green waters that the ancient Maya once used for their trade routes.

Once we were well past the crocodiles, we parked the boat and swam further through the channels, letting the current carry our bodies. Eventually we came to another Mayan ruin, a stone structure with an open window concealed within the marshland. “Passport control,” quipped Mario of the 1000-year-old ruin.

As we returned to the boat, Mario told us about the changes he’s seen in Tulum since he’s been living here. “10 years ago it was so different—very relaxed, no noise, less destruction of nature, but the government does nothing. No control, only money, money, money,” he said, pointing out where the mangrove has eroded three meters in the past 15 years, he said, due to boat traffic and a lack of conservation.

There’s still a chance to turn things around, Mario told us as we boated back through the lagoon toward the jungle of Sian Ka’an. “But only if people do something, the president, the police, the government, anyone,” he said as the setting sun drenched the lagoon in gold. “But it’s impossible if no one is willing to take control.”

Waters Stirred by the Wind
Cobá, Quintana Roo

We headed out early in the direction of Cobá, the site of an ancient Mayan city surrounded by tropical jungle about 47 kilometers inland from Tulum. On the way, we stopped to visit Azulik Uh May, a cultural complex that opened at the end of 2018 deep within the forests of the village of Francisco Uh May.

Azulik is the brainchild of Roth, an Argentine-born local hotelier who designed the structure himself: an immense, otherworldly complex of fluid, asymmetrical domes and spiraling, elevated walkways paved with woven bejuco vines. Live trees shoot through holes in the polished concrete floors of the complex, which hosts exhibitions, craft workshops, artist residencies and labs and studios in support of its various projects.

After exploring Azulik, we continued onto Cobá, which means “waters stirred by the wind” in Mayan, a reference to the two lagoons that flank the ancient city, Lake Cobá and Lake Macanxoc. The area is still relatively undeveloped, surrounded only with a scattering of modest shops, taverns, churches and fruit stands run by local Mayan families.

At its outskirts are three of the most beautiful cenotes in the Yucatán Peninsula, Choo-Ha, the shallowest of the bunch, the semi-subterranean Multum-Ha and the deepest, Tankach-Ha, which is entirely underground and can only be reached by a long spiraling wooden staircase interspersed with diving platforms.

The archaeological site itself is a sprawling network of stone causeways, temple pyramids and residential structures that once housed more than 50,000 inhabitants. Cobá doesn’t get as much tourism as the better-known and more excavated ruins of Tulum or Chichen Itza, allowing freer exploration of the site, which extends over 80 square meters and is in parts still overgrown with vegetation.

We gazed at stelae, carved monuments depicting the ceremonial life of Cobá’s original inhabitants, including scenes in which women hold positions of authority. As we were walking toward the largest pyramid cluster, I heard something rustling in the jungle canopy above us and looked up to see a wild spider monkey swinging between branches.

After hiking the archaeological site, we decamped to the other side of the lagoon to explore a newer Cobá construction, Coqui Coqui Cobá Residence & Spa, an outpost of the boutique hotel and fragrance brand that began in Tulum in 2003 and now has multiple locations across the Yucatán Peninsula. The two-tower, four-room limestone structure pays homage to the nearby ruins, encompassing outdoor plunge pools, a perfumery and spa based on Mayan homeopathy, and a restaurant serving contemporary interpretations of pre-Hispanic cuisine.

Like all Coqui Coqui properties, the interiors reference the 1920s age of the explorer, with safari-inspired furniture, lushly draped textiles, botanical drawings and antique maps. We had brunch on the terrace overlooking the lagoon—chilaquiles verde and whole-grain waffles with tahini caramel, bitter orange and roasted nuts and seeds—and then hit the road, headed for Valladolid.

Pueblos Mágicos
Valladolid and Izamal, Yucatán

It’s only about an hour drive from Cobá to Valladolid, a route through tropical countryside and potholed backroads connecting little rural villages where locals sell coconuts and traditional handicrafts by the side of the road.

It was evening by the time we reached Valladolid, a small city of just under 50,000 inhabitants founded by the Spaniards in 1545 and built atop a much older Mayan town called Zaci-Val or “White Eagle.” The city is a “Pueblo Mágico,” or magical town, a distinction created in 2001 by the Mexican government in order to highlight architecturally beautiful destinations with profound cultural and natural wealth that may still be relatively unknown outside of Mexico.

The designation certainly seemed well earned as we rolled in at sunset and saw the rose-tinted last light falling across ochre-hued colonial-era mansions, Spanish-style cathedrals and streets lined in pastel-stucco shops hawking handmade leather goods and textile—alongside more-recently-arrived upmarket Mexican brands like Caravana, Coqui Coqui and Hacienda Montaecristo.

The next morning we explored the center, home to the spectacular Convento de San Bernardino de Siena and a handful of local restaurants and street carts known for their excellent versions of regional specialties: cochinita pibil (slow-cooked pork in deep red achiote sauce), papadzules (a vegetarian enchilada-esque dish in a sauce made from pumpkin seeds) and Longaniza de Valladolid, a smoked pork sausage with achiote beloved by charcuterie connoisseurs.

Although some of the most impressive Mayan ruins and cenotes on all of the Yucatán Peninsula are just outside Valladolid (Chichen Itza with its remarkably well-preserved stepped pyramid and the cenotes Suytun, Oxmán and Dzitnup), we pressed on in order to make it to Izamal, another Pueblo Mágico commonly known as “the yellow city” due to the fact that nearly the entire town is a deep mustard color.

Like Valladolid, Izamal is a Spanish colonial city built atop a much older Mayan settlement—often quite literally. After the conquest of the Yucatán in the 16^th century, the Spaniards built a Franciscan convent directly on top of the old Mayan acropolis and named it San Antonio de Padua, its golden walls and arched arcades built in part with stones dismantled from the ancient Pop-hol-Chac pyramid. Five pre-Columbian structures are still visible in Izamal, most notably the Kinich Kakmo pyramid, built to honor the sun god, but archaeologists have found the ruins of hundreds more.

Today, the town is like a palimpsest, where Mayan is spoken as much as Spanish, women still wear the traditional Mayan huipil—white cotton blouses or dresses adorned with bright, flowered embroidery—and Catholic pilgrims come as their ancestors may have once come to worship the ancient gods in this sacred site stretching back more than two millennia.

The White City
Mérida, Yucatán

Ask a Mexican where to find the most dynamic cultural or culinary scene in the country, and they might say Mexico City or Guadalajara, but they’re just as likely to send you to Mérida, the capital of Yucatán state that’s often called the “White City” for its ubiquitous white limestone. With one of the country’s largest historic centers, Mérida’s lovely, taffy-colored colonial architecture, rich Mayan past and prolific creative spirit have made it an undisputed creative capital in contemporary Mexico.

And yet unlike Mexico’s other major cities, the vibe of Mérida is unambiguously relaxed, even languid. In the early evening, it seems the whole city convenes in the lovely, laurel-shaded Plaza Grande under the towers of the austere 16th-century Cathedral of San Ildefonso to chitchat and sample sorbet from the 110-year-old Dulcería y Sorbetería Colón. The first cathedral to be finished on the mainland of the Americas, San Ildefonso was built on the site of the ruins of T’ho, a religious and social center of the ancient Mayan world.

Many of Mérida’s best exhibition spaces are in walking distance from the Plaza Grande, among them the fmt studio-designed Lagalá, contemporary art space Galeria La Eskalera and Centro Cultural La Cupula, a garden-linked complex that hosts music, dance and theatrical performances as well as art exhibitions. And then there’s the gastronomy: Mérida is awash in restaurants by experimental young chefs trying out creative new amalgams of Mayan and Mexican, traditional and contemporary.

We’d been hearing about one in particular, Micaela Mar & Leña, which opened in 2020 on Calle 47 between 56 and 52, a strip of road that’s become known in town for its culinary riches. The food was phenomenal—octopus grilled on a wood fire with sweet potato and avocado puree, roasted beef marrow served in the bone, grilled jalapeño stuffed with fresh seafood, citrus, chiles, fish stock and aromatics—but the story behind the food was even better.

Micaela was started by two Mérida locals, chef and restauranteur Vidal Elias Murillo and sommelier Alberto Nacif Figueroa, who had been living and working in Houston, Texas, where they were planning to open a restaurant together. Then came the election of Donald Trump.

“We’re Mexicans with Lebanese ancestry, basically the enemy,” said Vidal as he motioned for a waiter to bring us mezcal to drink out of the de-marrowed beef bone. He and Alberto returned to Mexico and began traveling around the country to try to figure out what kind of restaurant they would open here. In an antique shop in Mexico City, they stumbled on an old book that would change the course of their lives. Inside was a handwritten letter signed October 2, 1897 by a woman named simply Micaela. It read:

Together with his anthropologist wife, Vidal set off on a mission to find out more about Micaela, eventually learning that she was the Afro-Mexican daughter of a woman from Veracruz and a runaway slave from the southern United States who escaped over the border on the Underground Railroad. In 1811, there was a major escape of 125 slaves from Plantation Whitney in New Orleans. All but two of them were caught and killed. One of those two was Micaela’s father, Salomón Tusa.

Salomón wound up in Veracruz, where he met Micaela’s mother and had 14 children, of which she was the youngest. But when Micaela was 13, Salomón died, leaving the family destitute. As was customary in the 19^th century, Micaela was to be married off to an older man, but she rebelled and ran away, riding the train to the last stop, a tiny town in southern Mexico called Comal de Pineda. There, she wandered to the market where she happened to meet the matriarch of the town, Doña Lorenza. Doña Lorenza took Micaela under her wing as a cook in her kitchen and later a nanny for the family’s children.

It was the youngest daughter of Doña Lorenza who taught Micaela how to write and helped her compose her memoir and recipe book, which was moth-eaten and tattered when Vidal found it more than a century later. Once they uncovered the full story, Vidal and Alberto were so impressed, they used it as inspiration for their new restaurant, which they named Micaela Mar & Leña: “Micaela Sea and Wood Fire.”

“The recipes in her book cannot be translated to the present,” said Vidal. “It said for example, use two cents of coriander. Put the tongue with salt in the shadow for three days. I’m not going to do that. But I used the time she lived in and the places she was for inspiration. The oyster bar is inspired by New Orleans. There were no refrigerators back then, so every single dish we serve has some kind of pickle or ferment in there. She grew up in Veracruz, so we have this coastal food,” he said. “And we use only the wood fire, just like she would have.”