Hurricane Aftermath
Chapter 8: Picking up the pieces
Mexico Soul presents a condensed version of Where the Sky is Born, my travel memoir on buying land, building a house and opening a bookstore—Earlier chapters in Archives.
After the dead end encounter with Alejandro in San Francisco regarding our Mexico land deal—the second in three years—Paul and I realized we had to take action. We could no longer sit back and let him navigate our future, for that is what being tied to his star had become. We were passengers in our own life, being taken for a ride by Alejandro.
Granted, the ups and downs weren’t his fault. Let’s place the blame where it belonged—with the Mexican government and state of Quintana Roo. If they hadn’t decided to seize his land—including our lot—by eminent domain, we would have moved forward and built a house on the beach using him as contractor. (As an aside, the state never did move the car ferry to Playa del Carmen, their excuse for the eminent domain grab).
But here’s the kicker. If that had happened, and the house had been built the next year as promised, would it still be standing today? Or would it have been destroyed by Gilberto, the class five storm that ravaged the coast from Cancun down to Playa, the same hurricane that took Alejandro’s Puerto Morelos house, leaving him nothing in return but an empty sandy beach.
Within 48-hours after our arrival in Quintana Roo we’d found a new contractor. We were engaging in Plan B. After our last encounter with Alejandro I’d had an epiphany. Alejandro needed new blood to make his project gel. Without it, this setback could last indefinitely. Maybe forever.
If we waited for Alejandro’s stars to align, we might never build a house in Mexico. Perhaps in time he’d resolve his problems, but did we have time to wait? My main fear was if Alejandro failed to pull together his end of the bargain, in 20 years when Paul and I looked back on our lives, would we be saying we almost built a house in Mexico, but due to a contractor, our dream went unfulfilled? I didn’t want our aspirations to be thwarted by someone else’s lost opportunity.
Once we became objective, we looked at Alejandro’s land deal as a long term investment—something we could hold onto for the future. But for the present, we needed land we could start building on tomorrow.
We flew to Cancun with no hotel reservations, rented a car at the airport and drove to Puerto Morelos to look for lodging. Even though it was high season, thanks to Gilberto, tourists were noticeably absent from the landscape. Even without tourists, however, hotels were scarce. Two near where Alejandro’s house once stood had disappeared in the storm. Both were beachfront; neither had sea walls to curb the storm surge. These hotels may have hoped the Palancar Reef would protect them, acting as a natural sea wall, but high waves could top the reef and submerge it, wiping out whatever was in its path.
In town, charming Posada Amor was booked with Europeans taking advantage of rock bottom discounts. Guide books listed it as good for those on a budget and it was always full.
Our only other choice was Hotel Paradise—the very antithesis of its name—situated on the edge of the mangroves with 18 rooms. In spite of its cellblock austerity, it was clean.
After talking a few minutes with the friendly desk clerk, we decided to book a single night while we figured out our plans. Our room bore nothing but a coat of bright blue paint, an acrylic bedspread on a no-nonsense bed, faulty lighting and malodorous swamp smells, all for $12 U.S. a night.
We unpacked and after a quick cold shower decided to walk to el centro for dinner. Strolling along the beach we noticed all existing structures were badly damaged. The beach seemed much wider than before the storm. Gilberto’s raging tides had deposited more sand, extending it 50 feet further out, a backhanded payment for the tragedy it had imposed.
We found only one restaurant open, had a passable dinner, got back to the hotel early and passed out.
Waking up in Puerto Morelos the next day felt like opportunity knocking. We decided to stay at the Paradise another few nights and told the clerk our decision. She looked so familiar, and after a short conversation we realized we knew her from another hotel, Ojo de Agua, that had been destroyed in the storm.
When we disclosed our plans on buying land, she said her husband was a realtor and a contractor and she suggested there were several beach lots for sale right in Puerto Morelos.
We arranged to meet her husband, Rodolfo, that morning. She gave directions to the house and we arrived there minutes later. The house sat on the beach, a truncated structure, more fort-like than villa-esque. We knocked, hoping our fledgling Spanish would be adequate to communicate.
A dark-haired corpulent man with a bushy mustache answered the door. He was wearing a light blue guayabera shirt and dress slacks and looked the part of a typical Mexican businessman.
A filtered cigarette held in his right hand emitted a steady stream of smoke as he looked us over. Then he spoke. “Can I help you?”
We breathed a sigh of relief. English. “Your wife sent us from the hotel,” Paul said. “I understand you’re a realtor.”
“Come in,” he said. “I’m Rodolfo.” He ushered us into a massive foyer leading to an atrium with high ceilings. This opened onto an interior courtyard with swimming pool. From there he led us to his office and motioned towards two leather chairs.
“We’ve been coming to this area for years,” Paul began after introductions as he settled into his seat. “Now we’re looking for beachfront land. We’ve stayed all up and down the coast. In fact we even stayed with you at Ojo de Agua. I’m sorry to hear the cabañas were damaged in the hurricane.”
“Yes, el huracán,” Rodolfo said, his voice trailing off. “The hurricane ruined so many things on the beach, including our cabañas. A terrible storm. It will take years to recover, for both Puerto Morelos and Cancun.”
“Was Puerto Morelos hit harder than Cancun?”
Rodolfo stroked his mustache. “No one knows. I’ve also heard point zero may have been Capitan Lafitte. Do you know it?”
We nodded.
“Lafitte was destroyed but they had insurance and are rebuilding. They plan to re-open this week for high season.”
In Cancun, high season begins at Christmas and ends at Easter, Semana Santa, Holy Week. When the States are in a dead winter slump it’s simply heaven on the Caribbean coast. Average temps range in the low 80s with a light breeze off the ocean. By May, temperatures rise along with the humidity and business drops off. During the dog days of summer, Puerto Morelos becomes Muerto Morelos. Dead. This meant businesses had to make money in a few short winter months and basically starve the rest of the year.
“Did many people have insurance?” Paul asked.
Rodolfo shook his head. “No, a pity.”
“Sorry to hear that. How did your house withstand the storm, right on the beach?”
“We were lucky, very lucky,” he said as he crossed himself like a Catholic priest at high mass. “We have a seawall plus a large terrace. Would you like to see it?”
A beach house that withstood Gilberto? Definitely! Rodolfo rose from his chair and motioned us to follow. We approached a set of French doors leading onto an extensive concrete patio—unpainted—30 feet wide stretching towards the beach. Although it would win no awards for beauty it was worth every peso he paid for it.
He motioned to the patio. “This, this saved my house. The concrete below and the sea wall kept us safe.”
We walked to the sea wall noticing it was 12 feet higher than ground level and two feet wide. A combination of concrete and rebar had saved his house from the destruction we’d witnessed everywhere else.
“No one thought about hurricanes when they were building Cancun because it’s such a young city, only 12 years old. Since no one lived on this coast until recently, no one thought about storms. Cozumel grew early on because of cruise ships, but not the mainland. Let’s go inside. I’ll show you lots for sale here on the beach.”
Back in his office Rodolfo brought out a well-used topographic map of Puerto Morelos. He pushed aside a marble paperweight shaped like the reclining Maya god, Chac Mool, and spread it out, carefully unfolding creases as it covered the wide expanse of an impressive mahogany desk.
“Actually, the lot on my right is for sale, here on the beach. Thirty by 35 meters.”
We stared dumbly at each other. Conversion time! Mexico’s on the metric system.
He read our gringo minds. “Approximately 90 by 105 feet. It’s a fair price. $60,000 U.S. With the hurricane, prices have come down. Let’s walk outside.”
Once in the open air, Rodolfo pointed out the boundary lines. The beach was wide, the Caribbean sand white, and goodness knows the price was right. For a change maybe our timing was spot on. It appeared the hurricane had cooled off once hot Cancun. Sellers were hungry.
“I also have another lot for sale with a house, up the road. The house is in bad shape; the storm knocked it off its foundation, and I doubt it can be repaired. It’s two kilometers north. Why don’t you drive out and take a look.”
“Okay,” Paul said. “How do we get there?”
“You know the beach road that takes you to Cabañas la Ceiba? Take that road and continue past Crococun Road, one kilometer. It has a tall house on it. The price is considerably less than this one,” he said pointing out the window to the empty lot beside his. “There’s no electricity yet, but it will come.”
“Thank you so much for your help, Rodolfo,” Paul said. “We’ll get back to you tomorrow. And if we do buy a lot, who can build for us?”
“I’m a contractor and have built many houses here, including my own,” he said waving his hands at the massive structure where we stood.
“Good to know,” Paul said. “We’ll drive there tomorrow and see you after. Thanks again.”
We said our good byes, walking on Cloud Nine. Our first day in Puerto Morelos was proving to be a very good day for beachfront lots. Two possibilities and our vacation had barely begun. We walked to the car, climbed in, and we were on the road . . . again.
Backstory—Puerto Morelos sits within 100 miles of four major pyramid sites: Chichen Itza, Coba, Tulum and Ek Balam. By living in close proximity to this Maya wonderland we pyramid hopped on our days off from Alma Libre Libros, the bookstore we founded in 1997. Owning a bookstore made it easy to order every possible book I could find on the Maya and their culture, the pyramids, the archeologists who dug at these sites and the scholars who wrote about them, not to mention meeting archeologists, tour guides, and local Maya who popped into the store. I became a self-taught Mayaphile and eventually website publishers, Mexican newspapers and magazines, even guidebooks asked me to write for them about the Maya and Mexico. I’ll never stop being enthralled by the culture and history and glad there’s always new news emerging for me to report on right here in Mexico Soul. Please share this post if you know others interested in the Maya. Thank you!
And if you’re interested in supporting independent journalism and writing, please consider a paid subscription to Mexico Soul. It would mean the world to me and will keep you up to date on all my posts and chapters from Where the Sky is Born, detailing how we bought land and built a house in a small fishing village on the Mexico Caribbean coast. Not to mention a bookstore, too! All for $5/monthly or $50 per year.
Rodolfo sounds like a standup Contractor B. And I love the details you added in this story. It's like reading a novel!
I’m hooked, Jeanine! I can’t wait to hear which plot you will choose.