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A Trip to Tulum

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For example, this was my first experience traveling somewhere after you poop, the plumbing is so sensitive that you have to throw the poop-covered toilet paper into a trash can rather than flush it. Like anything else in life, you get used to it. Like the cultured interesting people they are, who walk around Earth with their eyes and ears open, they have passable tourist Spanish. Andrea is fluent, which was extremely helpful. I spent my time pointing at things and shrugging. I learned that the gracious people of Mexico who work in retail and restaurants tend to have little pocket calculators in which to type out numbers and show me so that I can understand what I owe them. There is no airport in Tulum. Well, there are margaritas. Random tip, swing by Chedraui on the way to your resort and bulk up on snacks. A small blue sun-beaten laminated sign attached to the rearview window reminded us that a tip was not included. They brought us tiny bottles of Corona for the drive down, so a tip well-earned. Note the Coronas were not present on the return trip, almost like they knew a week in Mexico kinda stamps out the desire for last-minute road beers. The hotel was La Zebra , part of a small hotel group down there. Hey, I like chains. Except for ones that Jimmy Buffet is involved in. I booked it through a combination of asking Twitter for recommendations thanks Ali! Still, it felt like a roll of the dice. The dice came up with a critical hit as I can barely imagine a nicer place to stay. Our hotel room had a wonderfully comfortable bed, large useful closet, and walk-in double shower. Oh right, and a little open-air wicker trash can to put your shit covered toilet paper. They give you a very detailed tour of your room which is very clear on the point of the toilet paper. You get used to it, you get used to it. No, La Zebra is right on the damn ocean. The water was warm and refreshing and even the ocean floor was sandy and nice. A day was easily made lounging around in a cabana and popping in and out of the ocean. I guess seaweed is a big problem sometimes. Nasty red stuff that stinks and strikes swimming from the agenda. Instagram is your friend there since you can always look at timely location-based photos. There is an actual city center of Tulum. We went there exactly once just to check it out. Luchador masks, dream catchers, wooden animals, skull figures, and colorful linens. We ate at Burrito Amor and had rather good grilled burritos. I hear the nightlife is best in town. We stayed on the beach which is some 30 minutes away by car and largely stayed there. I saw zero dancing is my point other than an instructional salsa dancing workshop. Definitely no foam parties. There is one road that goes up and down the beach for many literal miles. THE ROAD is the only way to get around the beach, by car, foot, bike, motorcycle, giant truck, or little tiny four-wheeler designed to look like an American army jeep that you can rent really. Most businesses are almost entirely outside, so everything is dusty. If they turned THE ROAD into a boardwalk for walkers and bikers and somehow moved the road away a bit, it would be the coolest boardwalk in the damn world. The way it is now, it was a little stressful for me. I got more used to it as the week went on, but it still feels like the 1 opportunity for Tulum to improve. Incredible restaurants. Incredible resorts. Incredible shops. Everything is integrated into this shaded-jungle one-with-nature aesthetic that every place has a different take on but still all feels cohesive. There is no mini-golf or regular golf. There is no zip-lining or go-karts or petting zoos or Italian Night at the resort. There was yoga on the beach, hot stone massages, and guest mixologists. There are quite a few pharmacies. I suspect the density of them has something to do with the fact you can buy cold bottled water, and more importantly, pain killers and viagra without having to beg a doctor. We also bought some muscle relaxers for the legit reason of muscle spasms and it was effective. We were offered weed, PCP, ecstasy, and cocaine. Everyone wants to sell you something but they take being ignored or waved off pretty well. But we ate at places I found extremely fancy and high quality like Arca, Hartwood, and Bak. They are only open for dinner. They have solar panels, so their lights and music are powered by the sun. They cook by woodfire. So during the day, while the solar panels are charging, they drive around the peninsula buying fresh food, then coalesce in the evening to cook it for you. They take reservations somehow but do not have fancy machinery like a credit card machine. Having cash on you is the way to go. Before we went to Hartwood for dinner, we knew it was cash-only, but were short on cash. I would have liked to have converted money exactly once, but instead, we did it more like times. Ideally, everything would take credit cards. One little food court taco truck will take every credit card under the sun, including American Express and Diners Club cards?! Most places will take USD, but factor in an exchange rate. Again, just have pesos. Nobody really has it. It has to be delivered. Huge water trucks deliver water by thick red hoses to all the businesses. Similarly with electricity. The beach is off the grid, so power comes from huge diesel generators some more hidden from tourists than others. Anecdotal, of course, but even the fancy hotel staff warn you not to drink tap. La Zebra provided carafes in the room, but I even stopped trusting that. Also anecdotally, our tour guide says he gets sick in the U. That seems pretty resort-like to me. At La Zebra, everything food, drinks, spa treatments were priced just like they would be in the United States. Margaritas are 10 bucks. Toast and jam is 5 bucks. Maybe it feels that way to New Yorkers, but not for most of us. The clientele at La Zebra was fascinating. There was a couple of MacBook-toting nerds there, checking Twitter and not totally unplugging, like me. Then some old couples clearly enjoying a retirement trip. Plus some families with babies and toddlers. We were graced with two topless sunbathers. She only popped up occasionally to take smiley FaceTime calls remaining topless. The other was like an angrier drunker Frances McDormand who also took periodic topless FaceTime calls. There was half-decent WiFi at La Zebra. Phone service was not. At one point I needed to call my bank and the call dropped on me several times before I just gave up. If you absolutely need to make an important phone call, go to town. We did one big excursion out into the peninsula, booked through the resort rather than something we booked ourselves on something like Tours by Locals. Our guide was Omar, who took us to Chichen Itza. Chichen Itza is a fascinating place, worth visiting if nothing else because it is one of the new seven wonders of the world. Temples and observatories and whatnot. The coolest thing is the ruins of the ballcourt. Apparently they sacrificed the winner. The next stop was Ik Kil , bringing us to this important fact:. They are all different and interesting. Mostly freshwater, some a bit brackish. You take a set of stairs down after a required shower into it, where an incredible vine-laced swimming hole emerges. We also went to Gran Cenote , the close and super popular one, which was also awesome. We went right as it opened to avoid the crowd, and it was still a touch busy for my liking. I even got over the fact that you have to keep little baskets of poop paper in your room. Definitely, totally, completely got over it. Chedraui is like a more glorious Walmart. That bottom-level one with the hot tub on the porch. The stores were so similar it made me think there must be a single owner for most of them, which feels like it would be a good podcast investigation. I mean Cenote! Red Bull did a thing here one time where people jumped in not just from the top, but from a structure they built on the surface to make the jump even higher. Write a Comment Email Required Name Required Website.

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Over the last decade, thanks largely to the swarms of tourists flocking to the annual BPM Festival , it's become an international party hub for dance music diehards—and an under-the-radar getaway for people who don't want to be found. My duties included booking deals, answering questions, and ensuring our guests had everything they needed during their stay. I landed the gig when my own family rented a villa there; after a few shots of tequila and the bitter realization that I had no desire to return to school anytime soon, I straight-up asked the owner of the company if he needed any help. Turns out he did, and a month-and-a-half later, I was on a one-way flight from my hometown of Los Angeles to Mexico. Playa del Carmen is a small town, and during my three months there I rubbed shoulders with all kinds of characters from every corner of the world: expats; nomads; international club kids; even self-admitted criminals hiding from the Feds. In retrospect, I actually got to see more than a glimpse—for a few surreal weeks, I was a character in Micha's world, fully immersed in the lifestyle of an international drug kingpin. I met Micha in January , when he rented a five-bedroom villa on the beach from us. He was 6'2' and clean-cut, harboring a taste for fitted clothing, designer shoes, and watches that cost close to a starting cop's salary. Perhaps part of his charm to me was that he seemed like the embodiment of traditional masculinity, with the chiseled physique of a UFC fighter, the commanding presence of a Godfather- style mafioso, and a strong jaw that would clench whenever he was mad or lost in thought. After some initial small talk, I learned he was from Manitoba, Canada, in his earlys, and of Eastern European descent. Micha arrived with his friend Tim, whose trip to Mexico was the first time he'd left Canada after spending his entire young adulthood in prison for attempted murder. Tim was 29, but had the energy of a teenager. It's was if his development ceased when he entered prison. The relationship between Micha and me was unconventional from the start. Before I had the chance to give him and Tim a tour of their villa and my usual concierge spiel, Micha took a Ziploc bag out of his pants loaded with what he told me was 75 pressed ecstasy pills and a sheet of acid. After I got over my initial shock, the adrenaline junkie in me kicked in. Micha's brazenness was a welcome change from all the bougie rich people and moms gone wild I'd been dealing with all season. Wondering why the hell anyone would casually carry around so many drugs, I asked the guys what they did for work. Micha mindlessly pulled out three cell phones and told me he was 'in construction. Is it just the two of you? Sure enough, the next day, two of the most gorgeous women I'd seen in my life strolled in through the door and introduced themselves as Lorena and Mari. They were dressed in tiny T-shirts and bikinis, with skin-tight jeans, long acrylic nails, and plenty of jewelry. Somewhat mysteriously, I was told they were 'being paid to party for the week. The girls were kind to me. The three of us bonded over our mutual love for electronic music and travel, and Lorena even showed me videos of her DJing at parties in her hometown of Cali, Colombia. Our interaction beyond this, however, was limited, as the girls spent a majority of their time taking selfies and snorting a strange powder straight from the bag. A day after the women arrived, Micah's buddy Ivan showed up—also from Cali, Colombia. According to Micha, he met Ivan several years ago in Guadalajara during one of his frequent trips to Mexico, and they've been friends ever since. These days, Ivan was essentially Micha's right-hand-man whenever they're in Mexico; his primary duties include being a translator between Micha and his harem of Latinas, driving everyone around, and carefully coordinating nights out on the town. Micha took a liking to me—perhaps because I was the only female he could communicate with in English. Micha preferred a more Vegas vibe, but stuck around as long as there were pretty girls and plenty of champagne. Our routine usually went something like this: we'd show up at the club, pay for a table, and immediately be treated like royalty. The tab? Always paid in cash. Every night also involved copious amounts of drug use, astronomically expensive meals out, and plenty of Colombian-Canadian sex. It was the type of grade-A reckless hedonism that movies like Spring Breakers are made of, and truthfully, I enjoyed every second of it. A few days before his check-out date, Micha decided he wanted to make an impromptu trip to Guadalajara to visit friends. Meanwhile, the women and Ivan flew back to Colombia, leaving me alone with Micha and Tim. We immediately ran into a problem: the guys couldn't pay for flight tickets with their credit cards because they wanted to avoid leaving an electronic paper trail. After all the time we'd spent together—with Micha essentially letting me tag along on his all-expenses-paid vacation—I felt inclined to help. At this point, I knew that Micha was probably not the owner of a run-of-the-mill construction company, but at this point, I enjoyed their company so much that I chose to ignore my growing suspicions. I offered to put the tickets on my card and have the guys pay me back in cash. They politely declined. For the next six months, we kept in touch via Whatsapp. It felt exciting to be friends with an elusive bad boy who orbited on a level far above the small-time dealers I'd fucked with in Playa and LA. I still wasn't even sure what he did exactly, but would soon find out. In August , Micha announced that he was coming to LA for a month-long vacation, and was thinking about investing in the El Pollo Loco restaurant chain after hearing from friends how good their Mexican-style grilled chicken is. He told me that he might want to open one back in Manitoba. I didn't have a job at the time, so this sounded like a sweet deal. Plus, working for Micha meant we'd get to hang out all the time, and that's really all I wanted. I'd always had a thing for bad boys, Micha was handsome and treated me well. Based on our time together in Mexico, I knew hanging out with him in LA was guaranteed fun. Sure, he was probably involved in some shady industry, but my infatuation with him completely clouded my better judgement. I told myself: no one's perfect, right? The first couple of days we spent together in LA were great. I took him to El Pollo Loco a few times and he loved it. We went to the beach and hung out in Hollywood and Santa Monica. We stopped by Fred Segal's and he bought me jewelry, pulling out a thick wad of cash to pay for it. Like our time in Mexico, everything was always paid for in cash to avoid a paper trail. Then, one afternoon, he suddenly disappeared. We'd made plans to go to the beach in Malibu, but I didn't hear from him all day. He'd mentioned the night before that he was planning to meet friends at some hotspots, so I assumed he'd had a wild night partying at Playhouse or Greystone Manor in Hollywood, both clubs which he expressed interest in visiting. I didn't think much of it. Later that night, I received a barrage of panicked texts and phone calls from him, asking me to meet him down the street from his apartment, in the parking lot of a strip mall. On the phone he still sounded like the calm, collected Micha I knew, yet I could sense in his voice that something was very wrong. When I arrived, he hopped into the passenger seat. No explanation. He leaned the seat all the way back, making sure his head wasn't visible from outside the car's window. He periodically looked over his shoulder. I was confused, but secretly liked the thrill. It felt like we were living in a Hollywood blockbuster. Finally, when we were at least ten miles away from his place, Micha sat up. They'd been watching him the entire time he was in LA and saw him interact with a group of 'shady men in vaquero hats. Micha told me he was thrown in jail last night, but paid someone to pay his bond so he could be released in the morning, just hours before I picked him up. This explained why he'd gone incommunicado with me for a while. Next, he asked me to drive him to his lawyer's office so he could figure out how to get back to Canada immediately. But at this point, I was starting to freak out as the gravity of the situation sunk in. I knew in my heart that there was some truth to this. Strangely, after his 'confession,' I felt at ease knowing that I wasn't crazy, and that Micha wasn't some wild construction tycoon with bad financials. He assured me that I would be safe, and strangely, I still trusted him. I drove him to his lawyer's, rationalizing to myself that I wasn't doing anything illegal, and I could always plead ignorance. We sat in the waiting room and out came a thin man with a flashy watch and a pinstripe suit. Micha went into a room with him, and when he comes out, he had good news: his attorney knew how to get him home to Canada. After we left the lawyer's office, Micha made a couple phone calls on one of his burner phones, arranging for two girls from Manitoba to meet him in LA the next day with more burner phones and cash. So after I dropped him off, I called my dad from my car and asked for advice. Even though he's always practiced a sort of laissez-faire of parenting, my dad was genuinely concerned for my safety when I told him what was happening. He instructed me to immediately delete Micha's number unless I wanted a file on me and law enforcement trailing my whereabouts—or worse. The following day, I texted Micha letting him know that I was headed out of town for a while. I lied and told him I was thinking about moving back to Mexico and might be difficult to contact. He replied telling me to have fun, keep in touch, and that maybe we'll see each other in Mexico again. Then, I reluctantly deleted his numbers from my phone, and eventually changed my own. That friendly goodbye was the last thing I ever heard from Micha. To this day, I still think about him from time to time. Sometimes, I even look him up on American and Canadian prison inmate locators, hoping to dig up a trace of him somewhere. But I've got nothing. In fact, I still don't even know if his real name was Micha. Follow Sarah Ontell on Twitter. By signing up to the VICE newsletter you agree to receive electronic communications from VICE that may sometimes include advertisements or sponsored content. Sign In Create Account. This story is over 5 years old. Every night involved copious amounts of drug use, astronomically expensive meals out, and plenty of Colombian-Canadian sex. March 24, , pm. Tagged: Thump mexico Playa Del Carmen the bpm festival drug dealer.

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