Whose is this El Cuyo?

I felt the urge to visit El Cuyo, Mexico ever since two little French Canadian girls mentioned they were going back to visit. Their parents had made a family escape from Canadian winter to where we live and during their stay, found a happy excursion where the only seeming drawback was difficulty with mosquitos. Apart from that, I knew El Cuyo was mostly made up of beach and a kite surfing school.

And what did I know of kite surfing anyway.

So, on an adventure to know El Cuyo, I booked the most minimal of housing and found the most leisurely of directions.

Depending on the hour one checks, the drive from our place (in Akumal) by way of Tulum, may take 3 and a half hours or at least 5. The highways are slender and sometimes run through populated areas, so with traffic and stopping for speed bumps, one finds one’s way. Driving north from Tulum inland, we avoid the ranch town of Tizimin and the town center of Valladolid. We continue in one straight line to the uppermost edge of the state of Yucatan.

For this fisherman town with its sport assets and gathering spots, the tourist seems to be of little interest. To the El Cuyan, the wide sandbar jutting off from the town center is reserved for the vacationer or short term habitant.

Our “tiny home” here is nestled next to a clump of coconut trees and stationed next to an Italian transplant with an orange dog named Canela and an orange cat dubbed Spider-Man. These mascots have free rein of all geography and welcome two other dogs named Siete and Ocho to the party. We have a porch set on stilts outside our house for our dining hall, so are accompanied by whomever joins us when meals are served.

For our first evening, we adventure toward the moor and discover the fishermen’s day is long over. There are a lot of boats in evidence, but after we have bathed at our long, langorous beach, we missed what was probably not a busy Sunday schedule. We decide we will drive off in the morning to find Ria Lagartos and the pink flamingos.

After a decision the next morning to make our own arrangements, we take another long and even more slender route by ranch land and other villages to the natural preserve. Beginning the drive after breakfast, it takes an hour and a half to drive west of our original location. Upon arrival, an industrious guide named Jose recruits us at the gas station. He belongs to a cooperative group of guides and boat owners who make their living off of people who have not booked charter tours out of other companies.

Each of 6 seats on a tour boat may cost the traveler between 250 and 300 pesos. Just two of us get the whole boat at a reduced price of 1,000. Of course, best tour time is as early as 6 AM and we are there after 11. Still, for over three hours, we get to visit with three or four crocodiles, multiple different storks, pelicans and frigates and hear details of their mangrove habitat.

After the pandemic, this naturalist co-op is still in recovery. While there were no visitors, the government sent them a subsistence which could maintain them. However, at the same time when tours were limited the private salt enterprise began to encroach upon the preserve and the famous pink flamingos were left crowded. It took a combination of publicity and good journalism to force the company to retreat.

We managed a very nice seafood meal in the town. Since we have some avocado at home, we brought much of the ceviche back with us for dinner. Our drive back to El Cuyo from our excursion to Rio Lagartos, was more reassuring than our drive to the preserve. What seemed hazardous the first time seemed romantic the second.

We came back before dark. I asked to walk the sandy roads around our neighborhood of different dwellings to take the kinks out. There appeared to be a few more eating establishments, but there were not too many people to run into. Not having internet did not bother me. We found it easy to rest after a day’s activity.

The second day in El Cuyo was our final. We trudged out to the beach to watch our second sunrise and observe the big change in our gulf waters. Seaweed had piled up on the beach and in the wake. We felt the roiling breezes. Walk five minutes back to eat a breakfast before a morning swim in the breaking waves.

I remember an older gentleman once tell me all of the weather back home in Louisiana came out of the Gulf. And so it does in El Cuyo. Roiling through the water, we understand a bigger weather system is hitting the southeastern USA. Soon dark clouds and more winds encourage us to pack up. We go back to our “tiny home” and gather up for our return.

Now that I can say I have met El Cuyo, I will certainly enjoy another visit in the not too distant future.

Peg