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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.

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.
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Cave of crystal clear fresh water with a temperature of 75 degrees Fahrenheit, 24 degrees Celsius.

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. 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?

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. 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.

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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.
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Jeanine Lee Kitchel, a San Francisco-Bay Area expat, is author of Where the Sky is Born: Living in the Land of the Maya ($15.00, Enchanted Island Press, available from Amazon.com or direct from the publisher – www.yucatantales.com)  Kitchel and her husband bought land, built a house, and retired in Mexico in 1997.  Her nonfiction travel account is a useful resource for anyone thinking of relocating in Mexico.  The author is an authority—through firsthand experience—on land buys, realtors, contractors, immigration attorneys, notaries and customs agents in Mexico. She contributes to The Miami Herald/Cancun Edition.

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