Everybody's Gone Surfin', Surfin' Uruguay...

Punta del Diablo from the Devil's Point itself...The legend of Punta del Diablo had been in our minds since we first explored Uruguay's Atlantic coast with Justo--according to friends like Jong Ah and Juan Pablo, in the summer, it is known as the surfing capitol of the country, with a bohemian culture that swells with crazy college kids from December to March. Definitely, a "mustache-up" kind of town. Located just east of Laguna Negra, Black Lake, the Devil's Point is just thirty minutes from Chuy--Uruguay's duty free border town with Brazil...
On a whim, returning from the Ambassador's house on the last day of June, we decided to throw our bags together, taxi up to Tres Cruces, and spend a long weekend experiencing this coastal village in the off-season--when the population in nearly non-existent, the beaches would be desolate and romantic, and rental prices would be a tenth of the tourist season. Before rushing from our apartment, the place left in disarray, I emailed a friend I'd never met--I guy named Brian, who had found me a month or two earlier via the internet. Apparently, he had a hostel in Punta del Diablo, so I sent him my cell number and word we were on our way thinking maybe he'd have a place to stay...

The four hour drive along the gentle green rolls of country ended in another rural sunset before becoming a full moon filled night...

Without reservations--the town barely has phones let alone internet, or hotels or restaurants or a bus station for that matter; it really is almost a ghost town from April to November--our bus rocked down the rutted dirt road which was the light-less "main street" and tossed us out in the dark. One local was waiting for the only other two people to get off the bus, and after asking about a hotel he pointed us up one dirt road, motioning to follow to the right and maybe we could find a room to rent...

Meanwhile, the local stray dogs starting sniffing at the wheels of our first-world rolling luggage, and, if we weren't arriving completely unnoticed, then local eyes were probably spying through their weathered windows wondering, "what are those people doing here..."

It seems strange to hardy Oregonians, who love the ocean on a stormy day and enjoy beach-combing in solitude, but the people of Uruguay shiver all non-summer long, shuddering at the mere thought of going to the beach in fall, spring or, especially, winter. "Gringos locos"...

We rattled past the only two signs of life--two competing one room markets. After asking more advice, one kind local lady broke out her battery depleted flashlight and guided us to the only lodging that stays open year round--Hotel Posada. Rooms ran for around $40 a night plus breakfast, but the hostess suggested we'd like a whole house for $30. She was right. We walked back up the hill in the dark, under the moon. She unlocked the sliding window doors to a two-story rental home, turned on the gas and fuses, and lit a pine cone under some hardwood logs in the fireplace...This is Mr. Snuffuluffugus--or so we named him--after discovering that one of our logs resembled some sort of primitive muppet. We burned him last...
After a walk to the meager market, we had enough basic supplies to enjoy the night with nothing but each other, romantic drinks and some home cooking, before snuggling upstairs surrounded by windows filled with stars and the sounds of crashing surf...
The sunrise woke us like a silent alarm--but only long enough to capture the scene in the camera before snoring the early morning away...
Our hill-top two story temporary home was perhaps the the best place in town--we later learned that it could go for $300 a night in the peak season, with a dozen or more renters sharing the big splurge as they partied a memorable week away at a time. It had gorgeous views in every direction exposed to the sun and ocean to the east...
The cabin, perched on an earthen mound, looked down over the bay of Punta del Diablo, and over the menagerie of ramshackle village shacks and homes...
When we arrived the night before, several dogs followed us all the way to the rental, hoping for a hand-out as we cooked and reclined inside. In the morning one remained--and, although we initially never fed her, she for some reason chose to stay with us our entire three day stay. She was one of those clumsy cute, floppy eared mutts with funny but kind eyes that bugged out a bit, but sweet and not a begging nuisance...just a nice soul that seemed to say, "Let's be friends" when she wagged her tail or trailed behind us. We named her "Zippy" after the main character in an endearing book Leandra was reading, who also had that kind of personality. I was reading it out loud to her the night before...An old statue of Artigas stands defiantly at the end of the stony outcropping that is the devil's point...

As soon as the sun was warming the winterized town, we wandered down to the rocks dividing the sandy beaches. Waves, rolling in giant parabolas, obviously perfect for surfing, slowed down, rose up and rocked the shore...
A strange obelisk stood, with perhaps a person out on Punta del Diablo...
We made our way to the end--jumping across giant round rocks, and across fissures smoothed out by the endless waves--and chilled in the sun with Zippy and other less loyal local mongrels...
Perfect two meter waves began at the point and ran all the way into the sand, two hundred meters away...
The weather was wonderful: sunny, breezy, quiet, and easy to feel all alone in a place that explodes with summer fun, but for now was dormant...

From the point's southern side, a rockier beach provides safer haven for houses, huts and plants, compared to the northern bay...Who can't appreciate an old man and the sea?
We wandered through town, searching for any signs of activity--artisans, a restaurant or bar, a cyber cafe. There wasn't much happening. We did get a closer look at a town that was, for now, boarded up, waiting for it's fresh coat of paint just before the return of tourists. Most businesses here literally run themselves to ruin over the three boom months, then lie half broken for nine months before their owners hustle back, and prepare for another season. Unlike Punta del Este, this town gets a much larger share of less affluent visitors, surely more Uruguayans, and the Brazilians or Argentinians that do visit come for the surfer atmosphere. Outside those circles, this place is virtually unknown--before writing this, I spent an hour looking for an online map that included a little black dot for Punta del Diablo. None.
A fine example of a "waterfront" bar, one that must rage with energy during the summer, sitting idle on the dirt road that runs along the north beach. For now, it's as abandoned as a ship run ashore...
Two or three small shops sat permanently open near the point. Next door, an open-air artist market that must teem with bohemian creators and hippie crafts was all boxed up, save a couple booths trying to sell their bauble bracelets and feathery dream-catchers to the first two tourists they'd seen in a week...
This scene is the symbol of Rocha--the local fishing boats that routinely get wenched ashore after a night and day of net fishing. The fact that they weren't working while we were there attests to the tranquility of the town in mid-winter. They only fish when people need feeding--and, other than the fishermen's families, no one was here...
Crooked structures huddle together, lining the streets...
Also, more solid rental homes hibernate until the demand returns...
Three local boys play a modified version of futbol and tennis. Behind them, another business-less bar taking it as easy as we were...
Car troubles? Flat tire? Here's your man--the local mechanic...

About this time, Brian sent me a text. It turns out, we happened to find the hotel he had recommended, and his place was just a few meters away. We met and spent some time finding out more about each other. It turns out, Brian, a smart young man following his dream, is building a hostel and bar here. Clearly, he's done his research, and will undoubtedly help put Punta del Diablo on the map, literally, by providing something unheard of in this town: quality service and consistency. His project should be done by December, and, already, we can't wait to return and check it out!

Brian told us everything about Punta del Diablo's history: decades being a simple fishing town, land ownership offset by squatter's rights, and now the initial interest by investors trying to provide trustworthy tourist services while complying with a local government that wants to retain the charm of a quiet coastal town...
Here's an example. This house is one of the few remaining close to the beach. It's probably "owned" by the relatives of a long gone fishing family who don't own the land underneath. As long as the residence stays occupied, the rightful landowners can't sell or develop the land, which leaves the waterfront sparsely populated by less-than-modern domiciles as owners wait for the squatter's rights to expire...
Walking north along the beach, we came to a lifeguard tower--momentarily down due to a recent windstorm that Brian said sent waves sky high over the rocky point. Brian's bar and hostel--El Diablo Tranquilo--will be situated just up the beach behind...
We spent the days scouting out beaches and scouring town. In between, we'd just go chill on our decks with a drink and watch waves, birds and the occasional human go by...
Brian, and his girlfriend, Heidi, invited us over for dinner that night. Before that, we walked under the sunset along the beach again...
Waves turned pink under the evening rays...
Then the heavens turned red just before the sleepy town went completely comatose...
Meet Heidi and Brian. Two other local friends joined us in their rustic home. With a stoked fire, a bucket full of stew, and more than a few stories to share, we got to know our new friends all night...
The moon glowed over the point, lighting the surf, as a white-washed anchor became art by the Uruguayan Coast Guard quarters--man, did those guys have a cushy job...
On one walk we found a boulder we deemed Butt-Crack rock. Zippy is understandably confused...
It must be the surf capitol of the country if local dudes in dry-suits are hanging ten in winter...
Up the beach from the bay, you could still make out Artigas' statue and the unfocused town...
We climbed on the rocks and watched the waves rumble in...
And roll out again. Occasionally a sea lion would poke his black head and whiskery nose up between the incoming breakers, as he searched the rocks for urchins or other edible crustaceans...
The local lawnmower was enjoying her work along a grassy berm...
Another gorgeous sunset out on the point...
Another stray, another wave, another great day...
After three nights at Punta del Diablo, we decided it was time to say goodbye and travel north to the border town of Chuy. And, Brian and Heidi told us about El Fortin San Miguel, a former fort, now serving as a hotel for avid bird-hunters. Maybe we could get a room there...
Back on a local bus, we pulled into a national park with more colonial history...

A Portugese fort named Santa Teresa. Although we didn't have a chance to visit inside, you can still appreciate the star shaped design to repel cannonballs, and the watchtowers at the ends...Sand dollars are a rare find along the Uruguayan coast--Leandra was more than happy to find one in tact, "mas o menos"...
The bus dropped us off at Chuy--a bi-national border town whose main boulevard is literally the line between Brazil and Uruguay. Fortunately, the expensive visa isn't required until you pass through customs up the road to the north. Here, you can find all kinds of deals on duty free items that are generally unavailable in Montevideo. Leandra and I stood in the middle of the street, straddling two nations. The Uruguay side is behind Leandra...
Brazil is behind me...
On your left, Brazil. On your right, Uruguay...

After a nice lunch in town, we snagged a cab and drove the ten kilometers west to try and get a room in El Fortin San Miguel--no luck. So, we backtracked to Chuy and tried another resort just south of the border town--El Cornerillos, I think it was called...
It was nice, surrounded by gardens and paths leading to the beaches and woods...
A goal post waiting for the summer crowds by a small river or "arroyo" flowing into the ocean...
A scary suspension bridge crossed the river as the sun dropped behind the trees. Leandra was wiggling it while I was walking across...
A local fisherman posed with his bamboo pole...
Leandra was again gushing with joy to find some cute little sea-stars in the sand...
On the other hand, I was happy to find the world's biggest artichoke--it tasted terrible...
On our last morning, we took in the sunrise above the dune grass before waltzing south along the sea...
Simple pleasures, some sunshine, and straight lines...
An old metal monster was corroding in the salt water...During our continental breakfast, we saw two of the cutest creatures out for their morning constitutional under the palms...
Meanwhile, a less pleasant parent passed by the formerly functional lighthouse...
Around ten, Brian and Heidi picked us up in, what else, their pick-up, and we drove to Montevideo. They stayed with us while Brian had some meetings in the big city, but they found time to join us for our little Fourth of July celebration at our friends house...
You can always tell when you are getting close to the city in Uruguay...