In the incandescent theater of Mexican tourism, where each state competes for a place in the traveler’s spotlight, Oaxaca is forging ahead not only with its mestizo soul, its colorful markets, its ritual mezcal, and its timeless dances, but also with an economic muscle that rarely receives the recognition it deserves: formal employment in the tourism sector.
A cold but revealing fact that reveals much more than numbers: 19,382 jobs registered in March 2025 with the Mexican Social Security Institute. A figure that represents 8.22% of total formal employment in the state.
But let no one be fooled. This is just the visible tip of an iceberg floating in shifting waters. Because while those nearly 20,000 jobs are the official face, the deeper and less-told truth is that informality reigns supreme in Oaxaca’s tourist corridors.
It is estimated that more than 150,000 people—traditional cooks, waiters without contracts, receptionists without benefits, anonymous maids—survive on the nebulous border of the unregistered. People who make a living from tourism but do not appear in state or IMSS statistics. Workers without names on the payroll, yet with faces, fatigue, and aspirations.
Thus, while in Baja California Sur 28.36% of its formal workers make a living from tourism, and in Quintana Roo the phenomenon reaches a staggering 44.07%, Oaxaca remains far from those podiums.
But it does so not for lack of vocation, but rather due to the historical reality of its economic system, a structure where formality seems a luxury, not a foundation.
Oaxacan businesspeople in the sector know this well. They invest—sometimes with blind faith, other times out of necessity—in training personnel who, a few weeks later, leave without looking back. Job mobility in hotels and restaurants is a continuous dance, not one of enjoyment but of survival. A cook leaves his kitchen for another who offers twenty pesos more per day; a waitress moves to another hotel because they pay on time on Sundays. Turnover is extremely high.
And with it goes the acquired knowledge, the investment in training, and the unique style of each establishment. For the owner, there is the bitter feeling of having sown in someone else’s field.
This nomadic logic is not only a consequence of low wages or precarious conditions—although they do exist—but also of a system that fails to retain or guarantee progress for those who run it. Labor mobility in tourism in Oaxaca does not respond to a culture of growth, but to a need to survive. Like someone jumping from rock to rock to avoid drowning in a river.
Therefore, formal employment data, although commendable, should be read with nuances. Because they don’t reflect that other, subterranean reality where the true heart of Oaxacan tourism beats: the hundreds of thousands who, from economic anonymity, sustain the industry with double shifts, with verbal contracts, with the persistent hope that one day the system will recognize them.
And yet, there is Oaxaca. Vibrant. With its streets always filled with travelers seeking authenticity. With its cuisine that has won awards in international forums. With its boutique hotels hidden in centuries-old mansions. With its Guelaguetza (a traditional feast of the Guelaguetza) held high as a symbol of mestizo pride.
All of that exists. But there is also the less photographed reality: that of those who make it all work, without knowing if they will have a job the next day.
It’s not enough to count jobs. We must tell stories. Those of the men and women who, between stoves, made beds, and trays that come and go, sustain one of Oaxaca’s economic pillars. With or without social security. With or without a contract. With or without a promise kept.
Source: agenciaoaxacamx
