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The House Where the Wind Goes to Die
by Bruce VanWyngarden
A few months back, my wife and I decided we would try to take our blended family, my two young twentysomethings and her 19-year-old and 8-year-old, on vacation. The logistics were tough, but we canvassed the older three, who live in other states, and managed to find a week in late May that worked for all of them. All we needed was a destination.
"How about Punta Allen?" I said.
"What the heck is Punta Allen?" said my wife.
Punta Allen was a map dream I'd had for a few years, a dot at the end of a dirt road in the magically named Mexican state of Quintana Roo. In previous trips to the area I'd thought about taking the road, which splits a half-mile-wide peninsula for 30 miles, to its end, but had never had the time.
"It's a tiny town on the Caribbean coast in Mexico," I said.
"It's a little hard to get to, but I think we could have a great time."
I googled Punta Allen and learned that it was a Mayan fishing village located in a 1.3 million-acre "biosphere," a nature preserve set aside by the Mexican government. I learned that its inhabitants harvested lobsters and that they would take you to see crocodiles, manatees, giant rays, ibis, and all manner of jungle and ocean creatures. I learned that the reefs were perfect for snorkeling and that the fishing was incredible. And I learned that hardly anybody goes there except hardy souls willing to brave the road.
The town has one phone and one Internet line.
We found lodging through the Internet; an American couple who own a guesthouse called Serenidad Shardon. It took them a week to respond, but finally we got through and booked five nights. We also booked a night at a slightly more civilized resort before and after our Punta Allen stay, a staging area, if you will.
We flew into Cancun, rented a very uncool Chrysler minivan (much to the dismay of our children) and set off. After a pleasant first night in air-conditioned comfort, we headed south. At Tulum, we turned onto the dusty, rutted washboard that leads to Punta Allen. My son Andrew slipped an instrumental by the Talking Heads into the tape deck. It was slow and ominous, droning Heart of Darkness music. It fit perfectly as the jungle closed over the one-lane road. Occasionally, through the undergrowth, we'd see a glimpse of beach and perfect aquamarine water. Birds of many colors flew across the road. Iguanas were everywhere, big ones, little ones, fast ones, dead ones (which were probably once slow ones). I couldn't drive any faster than 30 mph or so, and usually much slower, as we negotiated many gaping potholes and ruts. After nearly more than two hours, the road turned to sand, and we came to a small house. Two very short brown men flagged us down and welcomed us to Punta Allen.
"Por favor, donde esta Serenidad Shardon?" I asked.
The men responded in rapid Spanish and for the first of many times, I was grateful for mi esposa Tatine¹s fluency in the local language.
We followed the road through the tiny village, which was not at first glance a place of great beauty. The streets were sand. Houses were mostly ramshackle stacks of cinderblocks topped with palapa fronds. Dogs were everywhere; children played in the dusty open spaces. The young Americans in the back of the van said nothing, but what they were thinking was as clear as the blue sky overhead: We're staying here? For a week?? Are you old farts insane???
Niki, our host, greeted us on the front porch of her two-story thatch-roofed house. It was surrounded by tall swaying coconut palms and was easily the nicest place in the village. She was vivacious and charming in a New Age-y sort of way and led us through the sand to our home on the beach.
And it too was a fine house, with a kitchen, three sleeping rooms and six beds, each nestled beneath a fine white mosquito net. Several large fans were blowing full speed, but the house was still quite warm.
"You'll get acclimated to the heat soon," Niki said. "Besides, there's always a breeze coming off the ocean."
We quickly put on swimsuits and walked the 25 yards to the beach, where a cooling breeze and the gentle murmuring surf made Punta Allen seem like not such a bad idea after all.
At dinnertime, we discovered a small cantina called Cuzan's, just up the beach. It was run by an American college student from North Carolina named Dave, who no doubt had the oddest summer job in the history of summer jobs.
After a wonderful dinner of fish and fruit and vegetables and several pina coladas, we headed home. The breeze off the water was cool, but our house was still stuffy and warm. Very warm.
"This is the house where the wind goes to die," said my daughter, Mary.
Nevertheless, we all crawled into bed, fans blasting full speed through the mosquito netting.
Two hours later, the hum of fans suddenly stopped. Silence filled the house, followed immediately by pained moans, as we all remembered Niki's last words: "The power in the village goes off at one o'clock."
It was a long, sweaty, night.
But over the next few days, Punta Allen began to show its charms: We went snorkeling in water the color of sky; we saw sea turtles, rays, sharks, the nesting islands of great frigate birds; we caught bonefish, jacks, and snapper, and Roman (the eight-year-old) tied into a four-foot barracuda. We burned red, then brown as Mayans; we ate fresh fish every day; we grew to love our two constant companions: Pancho, the giant golden lab, and his little female companion, who we named Teats, for reasons that would be obvious if you saw her. It even cooled off enough so that we could sleep.
At night, Dave introduced us to every variety of tequila known to man from his well-stocked bar. He showed us how to hand-line for snapper off the dock, and introduced us to several charming locals who were delighted to spend their evenings helping Agatha and Mary learn Spanish.
And the night sky ... Jesus. The night sky was a billion diamonds deep.
We'd sit on the dock under the diamonds in the dark and watch lightning dance through far-off thunderheads over the Caribbean. Magical.
On our fourth day, the heat returned full force, and sleeping was again impossible. Not wanting to end our experience on a sour note, we bid hasta luego to Dave, Niki, Pancho, and Teats and headed back to air-conditioning and toilets where you can flush paper.
A couple days later, we're on the tarmac in Memphis and it's 95 degrees and Punta Allen is a map dream again.
On Monday morning I'm back at work, editing a story, immersed in my job like I never left it. My e-mail alert chimes. It's from my daughter, Mary, in Washington, D.C., also back at work.
It reads, "I miss the house where the wind goes to die."
Me too.
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