| Maya Still
Life |
| Puerto
Morelos In 1984 |
| by Jeanine Lee
Kitchel |
| We stumbled
onto Puerto Morelos quite by accident in 1984 when my husband and I were
criss-crossing Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula, searching for a place that felt
like home.
While standing on a jungle road sixty miles south of Cancun waiting for
a bus that surely didn’t exist, we watched a small, rusty Honda round
the corner from Highway 307 and like magic, glide carefully in front of
us to a slow, deliberate stop. The driver, who spoke impeccable English,
offered us a ride, and as over- head rain clouds let loose with a downpour,
we hastily climbed into the back seat, congratulating ourselves on
our timing. Although the ride with him was short—he was only going
to the pyramids at Coba some thirty miles away—our chance encounter felt
like instant friendship, one of those curiosities of life that sometimes
happens when traveling. |
|
|
|
|
|
| As he pulled
to a stop at the crossroads that lead to the pyramid site—his destination,
or the Maya outback—ours, he fumbled beneath his seat and presented me
with a yellow umbrella.
“Take it,”
he commanded. “This rain won’t be stopping soon.”
“Only if we
can return it to you. Where do you live?” I asked, more curious about
our charismatic, dark-haired driver than anything else.
“Puerto
Morelos,” he answered. “Just twenty-five miles south of Cancun
there’s a Pemex Gas Station. Turn towards the ocean and you’re
three miles from the town square. Ask anyone where my house is.
It’s on the beach right past a small hotel with cabanas. I’m Alejandro.
The town is small; everyone knows me.”
Auspicious
beginnings? Perhaps. After a week traveling through northern
Quintana Roo, we ventured to Puerto Morelos. The local bus
dropped us at the turnoff and we walked down the narrow two-lane road bordered
by coco palms all the way to the square. |
|
|
| My first
impression was of a rustic, unpolished little pueblo with a few local shops.
El zocalo, the town square, lacked foliage, except for an enormous almendron
tree dead center and a few scruffy pinons, or pines.
A basketball court, though off to the side, predominated, its backboards
lacking hoops and nets. Several skinny teens tried to bounce a semi-inflated
soccer ball on the flat, gray concrete, and much to my surprise,
they succeeded.
Walking out
towards the pier we watched pelicans dive effortlessly into the water.
Fishermen, in typical Mexican fashion, were bringing in the day’s catch,
dragging fish in coolers to the well-worn dock. This was the real
Mexico. Just a half mile offshore, waves broke on the Palancar Reef,
second in size only to the Great Barrier Reef of Australia. The Palancar
hugged the Mexican coast southwards all the way to Belize, accompanied
by some of the whitest sand beaches in the world. |
|
|
Offshore
Resources Gallery
|
|
|
| A crooked
little lighthouse added cockeyed charm to the picture. The handful
of locals working that day nodded in passing, exchanging smiles or greetings.
Friendly, no doubt about it. No gringos save us.
We eavesdropped
on conversations, thankful they were in Spanish. Could this be
the place we’d been searching for?
In the past
couple years my husband and I had fallen in love with the Yucatan.
We’d seriously tossed around the idea of buying land and building a house
there, for our retirement. But up to this moment, we had never
felt like we’d landed in the right spot –until we found Puerto Morelos.
We asked where
to find Alejandro’s house, and a fisherman pointed us up the road with
a grand wave of his arm. Heading north, we trekked on a path cut
through low scrub jungle, walking as briskly as we could, bearing our duffel
bags, and our talisman, the umbrella, with us. The path curved towards
the ocean, and we passed a small hotel with cabanas and a large reception
area with attached restaurant. |
|
|
| Hibiscus,
tulipanes in Spanish, were everywhere, bright flowers exploding in reds
and pinks. Next stop would be Alejandro’s.
As we headed
past the cabanas, we saw his house. With its curved walls, white
trim, arched windows and bright purple and red bougainvillea growing
up the sides, it was more than we expected. I felt like Alice going
through the looking glass. Surely I had passed the point of no return.
How could I ever return to my city job after seeing life being lived this
languidly, this fully? We approached Alejandro’s house, knocked on
the mahogany door. He greeted us, in the Mexican way, as if
we were longtime friends. He insisted that we settle in as his guests in
this luxurious, beachfront house. All this over the return
of an umbrella.
In conversation,
we learned Alejandro had beach lots for sale in Playa del Carmen, twenty
miles south of Puerto Morelos, and Paul and I decided we wanted to
see them and possibly purchase one. |
|
|
Offshore
Resources Gallery
|
| The next day
he drove us to see his land, which bordered an upscale development called
Playacar, and we made an instant decision on the spot. Paul and I
would buy a beachfront lot from Alejandro and hire him as our contractor.
We shook hands on the deal, planning to meet up with Alejandro when he
was in San Francisco, where we were from, the following month.
As we still
had a few more days’ vacation time, we decided to rent a bungalow at the
cabanas next to Alejandro’s and settle into the solitude of the local
beaches in Puerto Morelos. At night we walked into town on the
dark jungle road, slowly becoming accustomed to finding our way without
the aid of a flashlight, guided only by the rays of the moon. In
Puerto Morelos we were getting used to the streets, the people, the tempo
of life. We knew when to find the bank open, what day the vegetable
vendor set up his stand, what time we could find the sporadic baker selling
bread. We noticed the friendliness of everyone from children playing
in the street to taxi drivers to shopkeepers. We started to become
accustomed to the polite nods or the occasional “buenos tardes.”
We were fitting in.
In town, the
street weren’t complete without an ensemble of scrawny, aimless dogs sleeping
in the sweltering sun. We called them throwbacks, for their wild,
untamed looks. They weren’t vicious, nor did they bark. They
just slept in the streets undisturbed. Even when the occasional car
came close to hitting them, they barely moved. To us, this epitomized
Puerto Morelos. Life was so serene, dogs could comfortably sleep
in the street without a care in the world.
Our beachfront
lot in Playa del Carmen never materialized. Long story. But
we did end up buying a lot just north of Alejandro’s on the beach in Puerto
Morelos. Getting to that point, however, took five years, two other
land buys in between, and a class-five hurricane. Suffice it to say
we had a real life adventure in the process. We now live in Puerto
Morelos in the home we built for our retirement. But one word of
advice for any hopeful Mexico landowner:
Fasten your
seatbelt, for you could be in for a bumpy ride. In Mexico, anything
can happen, and often does. |
|
Article
Index ~ Mexico
Index ~ |
