2 years ago I visited Punta del Diablo for the first time. There were perhaps 5 people on the beach. It felt good to be away from the crowds and pretentiousness of Punta del Este. I thus looked forward to the next opportunity to return and enjoy the area.
So here I was on a bus with Sara, mere minutes from this sleepy fishing village. It was a beautiful, sunny day and the end of a 5.5 hour bus ride from Montevideo. I could feel the warmth of the sea and sand and excitedly nudged Sara awake to share my anticipation.
It was the same time of year as before, mid February, just after Carnival in Montevideo. But this time on arrival it was obvious the place had been discovered. It reminded me a bit of the early days in Panajachel on Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. There were literally hundreds of people milling about the dusty streets, mostly young, smiling, hippy types which brought it’s own nostalgia. Thus there was a willingness to get off the bus, in spite of the change. Of course this was the last enticing beach town before the border with Brasil, so the options were few.
The internet broadcasted the beauty and serenity of the place and where there is a vacuum, it doesn’t take long to fill it. To my amazement there were over 700 people on the beach, many of them European. To my amusement I soon discovered that hardly anyone ventured beyond about a half a km from town. So as long as adventure, is defined by the greater majority, as a wish to remain closer to the road, there will always be a place for guys like me, curious to experience the expansive, open beaches, and willing to trudge the sand beyond the concrete.
You can imagine the impact that all these people have had on the few restaurants and lodging facilities that previously existed. New businesses, however, had sprung up like weeds to accommodate. I don’t like booking a place in advance if I can avoid it. I didn’t this time either and was beginning to regret that decision the minute we climbed off the bus. “Sorry we’re full!” was the common tune.
And what was available was exactly what you’d expect to find from unregulated growth. Several places we looked at appeared unsafe, dirty, and/or full of flies. What had been so memorable about Punta del Diablo was quietly fading. It was as if an unexpected, mammoth windstorm had caught me off guard, and was quickly burying my enthusiasm in the sand.
Fortunately before dusk we dug ourselves out of a dune and found suitable accommodation. By allowing ourselves to be shuffled from one previously booked Cabana to one in wait of new arrivals, we were able to have favorable lodging for 11 days, in spite of the shortage of suitable options.
After we were settled and relaxed it was easier to enjoy the town. Part of the character of Punta del Diablo is the thatched roofed houses poised on the hilly landscape in front of the sea. These weathered cottages, some deteriorated with slanting form and painted in different colors, added to the delightful charm of the village.
In the early evening there was frequently a strong ocean breeze. The sea would build and crash against the rocks. The sunsets were lush, the color of orange. Night would come quickly then and fill the sky with an abundance of flickering light, unnoticed in a big city. If one wanted to escape the crowds, it was easy to do. There were opportunities for strolls along unnamed roads of sand or through the dunes where in total darkness, one could count the shooting stars ,the passing satellites, and give name to constellations like sailors might do.
And when you were ready to join the gaiety, guided by a soft inviting glow, one could meander the nightly bazaar of handicrafts spread on blankets at your feet. These luminaries were made of candles centered in sand filled water jugs that protected the flame from the wind and weather. They formed creative, recyclable lighting that added to the warmth and romance of the fading day.
From my photos perhaps you can sense how special this ecological zone along the coast of Uruguay is. The beaches are beautiful and in 10 hours, double the overland trip time from Buenos Aires to Mar del Plata, you are there. A mere 1 km away from town the crowds disappear along with the horrific development offering km after km of pristine solace. Here one feels connected with the universe meandering the endless white sandy shoreline alive with the mystery of the place.
The sea laps gently at your feet where sea shells surface, each worth closer inspection. I was amazed at the variety of color in each miniature, artistic masterpiece. Only Mother Nature could brush such a rich, subtle spectrum of light and shadow. Iron in the earth seeps into the sea where it is deposited in iridized shells. Like a treasure chest of inviting blue, intoxicated by the salt air and smells of decay from the warmth of the sun, I could not refuse my yearning to slip a toe into the sea and examine the sparkling jewels beneath my feet. They were like irresistible, sparkling opals in hues of browns I’ve never seen before.
We stopped often on our extended walks, some as much as 25 kms a day. On virtually deserted beaches we would frolic in the sea as we did as children recapturing pleasurable memories before life got so busy. I was delighted that my body surfing skills acquired 35 years earlier kept me gliding the tops of gently rolling waves. An hour or more passed by doing literally nothing important other than experiencing the bliss of the moment.
Yes, I would go back to Punta del Diablo. Yes, I would book a place in advance this time. And no, I won’t tell another soul about the place.
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