Can Paradise Be Found In a Beater RV in Mexico?

View from the beach looking South, CaraMul, Mexico - Photo by J. Sharland

The plan for that winter’s Mexico trip was for Mac and me to go to our usual west coast campground with our “beater” travel trailer for a month to visit and then say goodbye to the friends we’d made, before heading to the east coast to pick up my daughter Isabelle, also a diver, from the Cancun airport on New Year’s Day. This meant that Mac and I had to leave the west coast on Christmas morning — a good time, because Mexico City had to be traveled through, and Christmas that year was on a Sunday; traffic would be practically non-existent.

Only one policía to face. But when pulled over, Mac went on the offensive by thanking the intimidating man-in-uniform complete with gun and nightstick, for stopping us, by asking for directions out of the city. The ploy worked, the man was helpful, after looking at our papers, and we drove on, all cash still in place from not having to pay a mordida, as well as getting precise directions for maneuvering the octopus-like roadways.

The rest of the trip to the Caribbean was uneventful and fast. We arrived at our new tiny campground, which we had reserved in advance, in three days.

The RV/Cabaña Park was small but conveniently located 20 minutes south of the Cancun airport. It was charming with bungalows made of sticks that stood on short stilts in a circle on the beach, with the RV spaces closer to the road. Unfortunately, the reef, the second-longest in the world, was far enough out to make the sea rough, which was great for kite surfing, but not so good for diving in that area.

After picking Isabelle up, and getting her luggage stored beneath the cozy dinette-made-into-a-bed space in the little, cozy trailer, we decided to drive down the coast to scope out a place to dive.

On our way south, we drove down a side road into Playa del Carmen to scope out the small town, which looked to be more of a tourist destination than a Mexican village, with small shops selling souvenirs, and a few restaurants along Quinta Avenida, but not much else to keep our interest. We drove on.

We couldn’t have imagined that in just a few years’ time, this small village would become the fastest growing city in the world, with urban sprawl and overpasses needed to bypass the bolix of taxis, delivery trucks, and cars of gringos and Mexicans in a hurry. And instead of the five-minute drive through town, it would take 45.

South, approximately 50 minutes, was an area called the “X Beaches” where we’d heard good things about their snorkeling, scuba diving, and camping. Much more to our liking with its rustic buildings made of the typical Mayan sticks and the vast pristine beaches. But no place to stay, except for dry camping, which meant no hook-ups, having to rely on the battery in the trailer for lights, keeping the reservoir in the trailer full of water, and going to the public restrooms since there were no septic hook-ups or a dump station. It was not my favorite way to reside. In a tent, I expected these inconveniences, but since we had an RV with the amenities, I wanted to be able to use them.

There was a very small RV park with full hook-ups, but that was, of course, completely full. Regulars coming year-after-year having first dibs.

With no luck at Xpu Ha (pronounced ‘Shpu Ha’ — x’s having a ‘sh’ sound in the Mayan language), the decision was made to go back to a place called CaraMul, a large RV park with a few palapas along the front rows. We’d passed up that park earlier because we’d had a bad experience there just a few months before. It was when we were on our way home in the spring traveling around the lower coastline. At that time, we’d stopped at CaraMul to check out the area for future stays, but we did not like the place.

There was no restaurant because there had been a fire that spring, two weeks before we’d stopped, which had burned the restaurant and dive shop to the ground, as well as most of the other palapas north along the oceanfront. With the fire damage all cleaned up, there was just a reminder of what had been there from a water fountain with a statue of a woman in the center of a circular cement basin that seemed to be catching debris, since there was no water, nor had there been for a while.

The place felt as if there was a dark cloud hanging over the area, figuratively speaking, with morale justifiably low, even though the number of crammed-in RVs was exceptionally high.

There had been only one spot to be had for staying the night at that time, which happened to be directly in front of the cat-infested basura. There was a huge water tower to our left and large class A motorhomes parked behind and on our right that totally blocked any breeze that may have wanted to pass through. The three of us were dripping from the heat and humidity with no moving air for relief, since we couldn’t run our air conditioner with only the 15 amps available for power. Then there were the bugs and the smell from the park’s dump across from us. This was not a nice place.

But, that was early Spring. This was mid-Winter and the desperation for a suitable and easy place to dive called for second chances.

*** This is an excerpt from my new travel suspense novel Under The Umbrella of Paradise. Read another chapter from the book here. ***