I Ate Tulum Street Tacos and Yes, I Got Violently Sick.

Saturday, February 4th, 12 p.m. 

I direct my eyes at the white, raggedy dog sitting at my feet. His unruly fur, lengthy and tangled, resembles dreads. Beneath his dreads are his ribs, protruding from his hollow belly. The sight makes me immediately depressed, but stray hungry dogs are not uncommon in Mexico. As I watch him, I can’t help but redirect my attention to my own hunger. It’s hard to ignore the physical sensation. My empty belly protests noisily for me to fill it with nourishment. 

The sun beats down on my exposed shoulders, freckles that weren’t there this morning already making a new home on my pink skin. A sweat bead runs down my temple and I suddenly worry I’m going to be starving and sunburnt by the end of today’s adventure. Earlier that morning, my friends, Tim, Rory, Mary and I rose before the sun, venturing twenty minutes north of Tulum to the small town of Chemuyil. We spent the morning on a local tour, biking from cenote to cenote, diving into the natural sinkholes containing the most blue, crystal clear waters I’ve ever seen. Now we sit in the town center debating our next move. 

Chemuyil is what you’d expect of a small Mexican town off the side of the freeway. Its unpaved dusty roads are lined with vibrant one story homes covered in tropical foliage. Stray dogs follow your every move, hoping for that accidental drop of food. A football field stands as a center meeting place for the town, and because we’re there on a Saturday afternoon the local team is warming up for a match.  My swimsuit is still wet, sticking to my bare skin. My stomach growls again and I am shook from my discomfort when the distinct and lingering smell of tender meat travels up my nostrils. 

“Where’s that coming from?” Tim asks, as though he’s read my mind. 

“The taco lady,” replies Einner, our tour guide. He stands at a stocky height. A warm smile is permanently spread across his face. He points down the street, near the football field. What I see is an unassuming hut, steam lifting from its makeshift roof. The idea of waiting another hour before returning to Tulum and getting a bite to eat is unfathomable. 

“I need tacos…like now,” I say, using my last drop of energy to forage through my backpack for pesos. 

“Me too,” replies Tim. 

I look at Tim. Then, Rory and Mary who nod eagerly in agreement. Just 48 hours ago, Tim and Rory were strangers I’d met at the airport – hometown friends of Mary’s who’d decided to tag along when they heard we were heading to Tulum. Mary, with her spunky brown bob and laid-back California energy, was my newest friend I’d met in Denver. We instantly clicked. When Mary asked me if the boys could join I eagerly agreed. “The more the merrier,” I said. To say they’d added energy to the trip was an understatement. Rory, with his vibrant red hair and freckles, wouldn't let a moment pass without teasing us or cracking a joke. Tim on the other hand, was more serious, a self-proclaimed “New Yorker,” regularly dressed in linen pants and patterned shirts that were always ironed to pristine condition. I’d only known them for two days, but it felt like years. Travel tends to have that effect. 

I find my pesos and with my elementary Spanish proficiency, nominate myself to go order us the tacos. I lift to my feet and make my way down the street to the taco lady’s hut. The shaggy, stray dog follows close behind me. 

As I approach her miniature hut near the football field, I notice the throngs of hungry people also drawn in by the irresistible smells. What I gather next, based on the crowds, is that the taco lady is a local celebrity. I peek into her bare bones hut. Inside is a fully functioning stove. On top of the stove sit two massive pots. Each is ornamented in a colorful floral design. Inside the pots she is slow cooking the tender meat filling for the tacos. Today’s offering: barbacoa. The meat is marinating in a mouthwatering juice spiced with toasted guajillo chile paste, cumin, clove, and oregano. It emits a hot steam, filling the entirety of her hut with the savory and spicy aromas that will be satisfying my taste buds in a matter of minutes. 

I hop in line behind a man who stands 5’4 and his son who is almost just as tall. I am impatiently waiting for my turn to order, but manage to distract myself.  There are children kicking around a football in the grass to my right and families chattering and laughing to my left. I do not hear a lick of English and I allow this immersive moment to sink in. When it’s my turn at the counter, I know it’s game time. 

“Hola, buenos tardes.” I’m immediately self conscious of my Spanish which I haven’t spoken regularly since high school AP Spanish. “Puedo tener doce tacos, por favor?” 

“Si! Un momento,” she responds, a massive smile spreading across her wrinkled face. Her weathered skin tells a story that indicates she’s spent much of her life in the sun. Her dark hair is wrapped up in a hair net and a colorful floral apron that reminds me of my grandmother is draped around her neck. 

I watch with admiration, my mouth salivating, as the taco lady uses her bare hands to place twelve warmed up corn tortillas on a platter. Next, she reaches for her tongs which are placed on a spoon rest next to the stove, and cozily places a plump pile of succulent barbacoa meat inside each tortilla. As she lifts the barbacoa meat above the pot, its supple juice drips from the pot to the platter, creating an oddly satisfying mess I can hardly wait to dig into. Next, she sets her sights on the toppings and my gaze follows her lead. Before me are a variety of garnishes  – vibrant green and red salsas, colorful pico de gallo, finely chopped cilantro and white onions and sliced lime wedges. 

“Todo,” I gesture at the spread. Again, she uses a mix of utensils and her bare hands to decorate the barbacoa with the appetizing garnishes. By this point, my mouth is watering. All rational logic has escaped my mind, my eyes fixed on the platter in front of me. She presents me with the platter and I take it with extreme precision, ensuring I don’t destroy her masterpiece. I thank her profusely and hand her 100 pesos. 

I am ravenous, so before heading back to my friends, I decide to take a seat at a picnic table near her hut and enjoy my serving. I am surrounded by locals clinking beers and speaking rapidly in Spanish. In the background, I can hear the announcer declaring the football match is about to start. The same white scruffy dog is at my feet, but now three more have joined his lead, hoping a crumb will be in their destiny today. I ignore my surroundings, as though I have on blinders. My sights are set fully on the three tacos directly in front of me. I give each taco personalized attention, as I squeeze a healthy serving of lime juice atop each one. I pick up the warm, pillowy meat-filled tortilla, ensuring not a piece of barbacoa goes unattended. What happens next is an almost spiritual experience, as the warm and smoky barbacoa flavor hits my taste buds, making me salivate at the first taste. Some heat from the salsa makes contact with my lip, creating a burning sensation that I want more of. The meat inside the tortilla is so tender and juicy, it melts in my mouth before I even have a chance to chew. I look up for only an instant and my eyes meet the taco lady’s. She smiles and I wish I could run and hug her and learn how to make these exact tacos at home. I accept the fact there’s no way I could ever recreate her mastery. 

After the barcaboca’s rich flavor sets in, my senses redirect their attention to the toppings. The onion is irresistibly crunchy. The pico de gallo is refreshing and tangy, and with the taco coated in lime juice, my jaw begins to tingle. The herby aroma of cilantro brings all the flavors together for a delectable dance in my mouth. The experience is transitory and I eat each taco with extreme care and precision. For a moment, I forget where I am or that my friends are waiting for their serving. I don’t care if I’m being selfish, this moment is for me and I indulge in every chunk of tenderized meat. Every vinegary bit of pico de gallo. Every piece of warm corn tortilla that feels like a hug.  

Despite my strategic eating, a few pieces of barbacoa do find a way to escape my grasp. I look down at the polite white dog who has become my companion in this small town, and drop him the juicy meat. He swallows it in one gulp, licking his lips, his snout quivering to identify if more is on the way. But there is no more. It is already churning deep inside my belly. 

_________________

Saturday February 4th, 7 p.m. 

Seven hours later. I am showered and rested after a two hour nap in my feathery soft bed complete with crisp white sheets. My hair is tousled up in a clip, the 95% humidity making it too unruly to style. A light layer of makeup primes my face. After today’s authentic street food experience, Tim, accustomed to the fine dining in New York suggested we opt for a more lavish sit-down dinner. We are sitting outside, beneath the palm trees, a light breeze fills the patio. All the factors point to a pleasing evening. However, deep inside my gut something is not right. I try to ignore it, wanting to enjoy the meal in front of me. My friends are laughing, recounting the day we’ve had, but I am quiet. We lift our glasses to cheers our margaritas, but I can barely stomach a sip. 

The server begins to bring out plates on plates of food – grilled octopus drenched in butter, ahi tuna ceviche smothered in a zesty sauce, spiced rice and beans, and tender beef skewers smelling of coriander and cayenne.  Everyone around me digs into the delectable dishes.

“This is the best ceviche I’ve ever had.” Mary sighs, savoring every piece. Rationally, I know the food in front of me is appetizing, but its smell and sight makes me wince. It’s 80 degrees, but a shiver runs down my spine. I look up at Rory who is practically drooling over his beef skewer. Meanwhile, I am panting, a drop of sweat rolls down my temple. I think I make it through dinner unassumingly but Mary notices something is wrong. 

“Michelle, why aren’t you drinking your margarita?” she asks, concerned. “Or eating your dinner?” 

“I don’t know, I feel kind of off.” I’m downplaying the violent churning in my stomach. I think I’m ready to go.” We exit the restaurant and flag down a taxi to take us to our Airbnb. We pile in, Mary in the front and me in the back with Tim and Rory. We are in the taxi driving down possibly the worst road in all of Tulum. It is unpaved and bumpy. It jerks us around like we’re on a rollercoaster, causing us to collapse into every passing pothole. I am grasping the door handle so tightly my knuckles are white. Music is loudly blasting over the radio, adding to my discontent, as I try my best to settle my stomach. And then it happens all at once. 

“STOP THE CAR!” I shout at the taxi driver, before flinging open the door. I run around the street corner and proceed to hurl my insides so violently out onto the street tears well in my eyes. I continue to vomit over and over, rejecting whatever I’d eaten that day, until I am dry heaving and there is nothing more to throw up. When I feel that my body is done, I search for something to wipe my mouth and find a tissue in my purse pocket. A stale taste fills my mouth. My throat is sore from retching. 

I return to the car. Everyone is quiet. Even Rory is silent, which I’m thankful for, because I am unable to speak. I think the worst is behind me, but as we continue to drive down the bumpy road, a fire is ignited inside my stomach again. It churns from the inside out. 

“Five more minutes,” says the taxi driver. A passing thought enters my mind. I wonder  how many sick Americans this driver has encountered. I close my eyes, praying this doesn’t last. It does. It lasts for three days. I learn, through my relentless Googling, that the bug I have, Montezuma’s Revenge, is a beast, an unwelcome visitor that chooses its weakest victims by chance and knocks them down for days. 

The term “Montezuma’s Revenge” originates from Montezuma II, the emperor of Mexico from 1502 to 1520, right around the time the Spanish began their conquest of the Aztec empire. The sickness which is typically contracted from food and water, and is also known as “travelers diarrhea” causes everything from vomiting, to stomach cramping, and yes, you guessed it, diarrhea. It gets the name “revenge” from the hostile treatment Mexico was victim to from conquistadors who took control of the country. Montezuma is getting fair. Why I had to be the chosen one is still a question I ask myself. 

I spend the next three days on the cold tiled floor of the bathroom, hugging the toilet bowl. When I feel well enough I find solace in my bed where I’ve swapped margaritas and tacos for electrolytes and saltine crackers. I run a fever for days, uncontrollable shivering takes over my body. My hands and feet tingle and I truly wonder if this is how I’m going to die. By day three, my stomach settles. Color reenters my cheeks and lips and I regain the energy to stand and to smile again. Rory teases me and for the first time, and I am able to make light of what I’ve experienced. 

On day four, Mary and I go to an Italian restaurant for dinner. She orders a 12” margherita pizza. The Italian chef, after hearing my ordeal, makes me a bowl of rice mixed with carrots, peas, and almonds, tossed in salt and butter. I eat every last bite, thankful it’s not a bland saltine. 

“How was it?” the Italian chef asks, emerging from the kitchen. 

“Best dish I’ve had all week,” I chuckle. “Seriously.” 

“You know,” he says, a thick accent rolling off his tongue. “I am Italian. I do not have a Mexican stomach, so I know how you feel. Montezuma’s Revenge is unforgiving.” 

“It really is,” I respond. 

“What made you sick?” he asks. To my left, Mary is shoving a cheesy slice of pizza in her mouth, almost cruelly. 

“I think it was street tacos, but all my friends had them too, so I’m not sure.” I shrug. Mary shrugs. The Italian chef shrugs. 

“It’s a mystery,” he says. 

Tulum, though interrupted, taught me a few important lessons. To never get lazy when traveling. To never eat food handled with bare hands. To appreciate the kindness of strangers.  And to never take for granted the freedom of being able to indulge in whatever you want. Let’s just say, as soon as I got home, I drank a glass of tap water, just because I could.