How Tulum Yourself in 10 Days (Part 2)
Day 4
Punta Allen. It’s not much more than a tic-tac-toe grid. I place two fingers on the screen of my phone and zoom in on the map to get a closer look. Sure enough, there’s a crisscross of four by three streets with one or two errant paths on the edge, but it’s an imp of a village. And it’s where we’re headed today.
It’s about 9am and we’re still at Burrito Amor, a brunch joint in Tulum Town, waiting for our breakfast to fuel up for the drive. Punta Allen is a secluded fishing village in the Sian Ka’an Reserve south of Tulum, and by looking at the map, I can see the long snake of a road that we will have to take to reach it. Apparently, it’s no walk in the park, so best to have a proper breakfast before it, Mystery Man had told me. As if on cue, our burritos are served hot and fresh in a basket and wrapped in banana leaves. I had ordered the veggie option with grilled vegetables, cheese, and salsa, whilst Mystery man had picked the more deluxe steak burrito. Mmm, Burrito Amor. The name says it all. Munching through my wrap with – no secrets here – a trail of hot sauce dribbling down my chin, I am totally enamored with my burrito and one glance at MM tells me he feels the same way about his. The tastes are rich and full, with layers of savory and spice filling my mouth at each bite.
We leave the diner feeling replenished and ready to tackle the lengthy drive ahead. Once again, we’re on the bumpy road of Tulum beach leading us all the way to the Sian Ka’an Reserve. The entry to the territory, which is a protected area, is blocked by a tollgate where we are asked to pay the fee of 37 pesos before the barrier is raised and our journey begins. On our GPS, Punta Allen is a one-hour drive along this one same road that stretches out until the village like a spindly spider’s leg. It’s a thin sliver on the map passing through jungle and water and into the remote wilderness of the reserve. In real life, it seems like the drive will be much, much longer. I had commented on the potholes in my previous post and this track is no better. As we slalom along the knobbly road at 15km/h – avoiding the crevasses and therefore with plenty of time to observe things - I notice a recurrent yellow triangular signpost on the side of the road that reads “Topes”. Though I recognize triangular signage to be the universal language of warning, I’m not quite familiar with the Spanish “topes”. As the next sign comes up some kilometers later, I have a better look and can only interpret the black wavy symbol underneath the writing (a straight line with a bump on it) as a speedbump. So that would be “caution… speedbumps” ...? Whilst I would hardly consider these potholes as speedbumps – more like dried-up wells in the ground – I can’t help but applaud the authorities for their nifty way with words. After all, it’s all about perspective. Run-down and neglected for some, “speedbumps” for others. You can’t blame them; life is what you make of it. Grinning at the thought and at my prideful moment of deduction, I lean back and pocket the topes happily into my repertoire of random Spanish lingo[1].
The drive itself is absorbing as the jungle grows densely around us. Some more warning signs caution against various wild animals and I peer out eagerly into the trees in the hopes of spotting a jaguar or perhaps even a monkey. Of course, I don’t see anything though a few more iguanas cross our paths and some smaller lizards scuttle across the sandy track. A while later we also see the sea. We drive along the coast as the trees open up to the blue sky and the vastness of the horizon. At some point the road narrows, with water on either side of us, and we drive on like that as though on a matchstick protruding from the sea.
Entering the village almost feels like a mistake. As though we had taken a wrong turn and ended up in the wrong place. Surely there must be more to it than this? There must be something? We both look out our windows in an attempt to orient ourselves. The main road – if I can call it that – is as battered as ever and we edge forward in the car with caution. The street is empty and the houses along it too look vacant, safe for the clothes hanging out to dry on lines from their windows. As we go further into the village, a colorful stand catches our eye, and it suddenly occurs to me how absurd the touristic feature looks here. A place unscathed of commercial vanities and yet here is this one, bright and catchy, money-making booth. “Punta Allen Boat Tours” reads the stall sign and there’s no negotiation or comparison required because it seems to be the only supplier of boat tours here. We park the car in the shade and walk over to the counter where we are greeted by two stout and cheerful men. We have the choice between a group or private tour, and we go for the latter, paying them in cash. It’s decided that Augustino, the smaller of the two, would take us on the trip and he bustles out from behind the counter to meet us.
Whilst we get back into the car, the man called Augustino hops on his bike and cycles ahead, beckoning to us every so often to follow him through the village, and past what must be his house, where he quickly springs off and runs to the patio where two women are sitting on white plastic chairs around a white plastic table, and where he hurriedly talks to them before jumping back on his bike and waving us on. It seems so insignificant and somehow it seems to epitomize life here. Quaint and simple straight to its essence. What if I cycled past my mother’s house on my two-minute commute to work every day in my shorts and a t-shirt and rubber slippers just to let her know I’m on my way?
A few minutes later we’re at the boat dock and Augustino instructs us to get some food and drinks at the local shop while he prepares our boat. The outside walls of the shop are adorned with colorful graffities of animals and a woman lounging in a bikini above whom a banner reads: “Thank you for your visit in Punta Allen”. Inside, it’s small and dark with some snacks, and drinks and a handful of other necessities. Again, it’s cash only, and we pay for our ice teas quickly before joining our skipper outside. He helps us onto the small motorboat and with a gentle purr, maneuvers us out of the dock through a forest of mangroves towards the open sea.
You would think beautiful things are easy to write about. At least that’s what I had thought before coming here. And yet here I am, sitting on this old speed boat, that’s neither opulent nor fast, wearing my flip flops and a scruffy life jacket, gazing out onto one of the most mesmerizing sights I’ve ever seen and words… words fail me. The colors are startlingly bright, almost blinding, just like looking straight into the sun. The water is the clearest of topaz blues, stretching out endlessly ahead of us in soft ripples, until far away along the horizon, its crystal turquoise meets the sky. The sky that’s not cloudless, but immaculate in its own way, graced with white wisps dotted across its pale blue vastness, as though added there by the simple stroke of a brush. It’s heaven on earth. Dazzling and completely breathtaking. And it’s more than just a sight. I feel its splendor on my skin, in the warmth of the breeze, in the soft splashes of the waves, in the saltiness of the water, in the absolute freshness of the air. It’s nature. Pure and untouched.
Augustino takes us around the bay area first, where we spot a pair of dolphins in their daily waltz that we follow around for a while, ecstatic at each jump, or else scouring the crystal waters for their shadows. It looks like they are racing each other, their outlines incredibly fast. When they jump, their movements are fluid and their silhouettes a true show of grace. Then, Augustino shows us a mangrove island above which myriads of brightly colored birds are circling and swooping, flashing their extravagant foliage at each swerve. We glimpse pink, bright blue, red and pops of orange as we crane our necks towards the sky. He tells us a bit about each of them whilst we inch around the trees. After having come a full circle around the island, Augustino revs the motor again and we speed off further out towards the sea. We spy a manatee on the way - at least, that’s what Augustino tells us it is - because all we see is a large cloud of sand drifting through the water slowly. The sea is deeper now and I can see the line where the turquoise waves darken into a navy blue.
The boat stops just a couple hundred meters off that line, and we wait. We’re waiting for a sea turtle to show itself. Scanning the immense surface of water surrounding us, I have a sinking feeling that there’s a very slim chance of a turtle manifesting itself here, precisely here, where we’ve stopped. We all look left, then right, then anxiously left again, until of course, it’s Augustino who cries out and pointing towards the water, says: “There! Look! Turtle coming up, up up!” And sure enough, I follow his hand and see a dark shadow rising closer to the surface. At first, it’s just a grey specter, until I gradually see its shape forming, then its green color, and lastly the pattern of its shell before it breaks through the water’s surface, and we see its ugly old head coming up for air. The moment lasts just a split second but it’s wonderful. I watch its beady eyes take all of us in and then it’s already diving back again, pulling its gigantic carapace down with it.
The last stop is called La Piscina. It’s a small bay of calm water, its color reminding me of Mystery Man’s eyes. It’s not for nothing that the Piscina got its name, because it truly is reminiscent of a swimming pool. We hop in only to notice how shallow and warm the water is. It reaches my waist and as I take in the sensation, I dig my toes into the sand’s cool softness. Lowering my knees until my shoulders are fully submerged, I lean backwards and let myself float on my back, squinting up into the sun. My body feels wonderful and light. And so does my soul. As though all the mundane worries of life have left me to bask in my own happiness. If this isn’t perfection, I wouldn’t know what is.
After a while, Augustino takes us back to the boat dock, where we thank him and say our goodbyes. Still in a daze, we have lunch at the Fisherman’s which is a type of lodge that attracts some backpackers and probably the most tourist-concentrated place in the village. The food, though fresh, is mediocre, but it doesn’t take away from our experience. We take a few steps along the beach once we’re done but quickly get back to the car as we still have a long drive back to Tulum.
After our idyllic getaway to paradise, Tulum town had greeted us with messy traffic and smelly exhaust pipes. Instead of spending the rest of the afternoon on the beach, watching the waves roll in and the sun begin to set, we had spent it sitting in the car, stuck on the congested main road. The cars had barely moved, and it had taken us at least half an hour until we were cruising on the highway towards Casa Altamar. Allowing ourselves a quick shower and a social media check in the hammocks by the beach, we had been on our way to dinner at Hartwood within the hour.
Hartwood had been another one of mystery man’s special finds. As we walk in, the terrasse seems exceptionally dark with just a few lanterns casting a yellow light onto the tables. Though the place is packed, a sense of intimacy radiates tantalizingly from the flicker of the candles. The real passion, however, is flaring in the kitchen at the back, where we see an open fire blazing in the dark and a handful of chefs bustling about in white. We’re shown to our table where a waiter presents us their daily menu written by hand onto a large chalkboard. Apparently, all the dishes are grilled and smoked completely off the grid on their oven and grill and using sustainable ingredients. Their offer changes daily, depending on the catches and the fresh produce. One dish has already been wiped off, a chalky smear being all that’s left of it. Listening to the waiter’s recommendations, we go for the giant prawns as a starter and the red snapper filet with a side of grilled beetroot as our main.
The food arrives and I tentatively dip my fork into the rich orange sauce the prawns are neatly propped on to. My lips open ever so slightly for the single drop to touch my tongue and it’s as though all tens of thousands of my tastebuds have been brought to life at once. The food is exquisite. A symphony of tastes on our palettes accompanied by the most subtle undernote of smokiness. Even the beetroot is complex in its flavor and elevates the sea bass without outshining its savor. The perfect duet. We eat our plates clean and lean back as the waiter clears out table. We’re replete but not bloated, which is my favorite kind of full.
Day 5
Given the title, you might think we’re staying in Tulum for 10 days. Given the title, I guess that’s exactly what you should be thinking. It just so happens that when planning the trip, Mystery Man and I had decided it would be a shame not to include a quick escapade to Mexico City to see another corner of the country. It’s about 10 minutes before landing and I’m gazing out of my small oval airplane window onto an overcast sky. Below, densely packed buildings stretch out for kilometers ahead, eventually blending into a blur of what resembles an army of grey Lego blocks. Everywhere I look, the city spreads out in front of me. From left, to right, all I see is Mexico City. Compared to yesterday’s picturesque Punta Allen, the sight of the city is daunting.
The arrival process is quick. It’s an inland flight and we had left our suitcases in Tulum, so we practically whizz through customs and book an Uber to our Airbnb in the Condesa neighborhood. The area is supposed to be one of the business districts and totally safe with hip architecture emitting a European feel. Our building sits across the Chapultepec Park and from our 8th floor balcony, we have an unobstructed view onto its castle. The entrance also has 24-hour security which reassures me. Mexico City had triggered many words of caution from practically anyone I had spoken to.
We set out for our first walk shortly after checking in. Roma Norte, I had read, the neighborhood next-door, is also one of the trendier districts. The promenade is nice. Tall trees and flower basins are planted along the boulevard and one or two water fountains adorn the way. Birds chirp in the branches somewhere above us as we walk in the shadows of the trees. It’s the middle of the afternoon and the road is quiet. It’s a pleasant stroll though I can’t help but notice the dirt and littering on the side of the streets, the stray cans, and the patches of drying urine. The symptoms of a goliath city.
We stop at El Moro Churreria for a quick afternoon snack. It’s part of a chain of Churros shops across the city founded in 1935 - and you must go to at least one. This particular churrerìa has walls embellished with blue and white tiles, and a couple of empty white wooden tables and chairs. We get a portion to share with chocolate, caramel and dulce de leche sauces, even though sharing the latter was painfully difficult. After that we get up again, back along the way we had come, passing by the Mercado Roma food hall. Had I not just eaten through six greasy churros each dipped in dulce de leche, I might have stopped for a bite, but as it is, we breeze past the stands swiftly.
That doesn’t mean I’m not hungry for dinner though. We’ve booked a table at Azul Condesa at 8pm, probably an early dinner in Mexico time, and as we walk in, I like the place already. It’s warm and cozy with trees and quirky statues decorating each corner. The waiters are elegant and one of them shows us to our table, helping us to our seats with gloved hands. We ask him for recommendations from the traditional Mexican menu and both order the tortilla soup as well as mole (mol-é) dishes as mains. First however, he brought us a plate with three ceramic spoons, each of which contained a mouthful of the national sauce for us to choose from. I feel like Goldilocks as I first taste the one on the left, which is a little too sweet, then the one on the right, which is a touch too salty, and finally the spoon in the middle, that tastes just right. The soups arrive in traditional looking ceramic bowls with a female skull figurine on top, like the ones you see on the Day of Death. They have a tomato base with avocado, sour cream, chicken, crispy tortilla and cilantro thrown in. The taste is exquisite. The mains arrive shortly after too, and Mystery Man and I indulge in our rich and flavorsome moles. We renounce dessert and call our Uber not long after finishing our meal.
It’s an early night for us. Tomorrow, we’ll head to the Aztec Teotihuacan Pyramids and end the day dining at no place other than the world renowned Pujol.
[1] With hindsight, it seems « topes » is a word specific to Mexico. A quick chat with an Argentinian friend of mine and I found out that in Argentina, “topes” merely means something close to “interruption”, so not necessarily speedbumps. But don’t quote me on that.
