You know, sometimes I still wake up and wonder what the hell I’m doing here. What am I doing in a house with a grass roof and 4 minutes of hot water? In a city without even a single restaurant for its 500 people, exactly none of whom speak my language?

I discovered this little pueblito 4 years ago, with my parents of all people. I’d been in South America for almost 8 months, the last 3 of which I’d spent living in a 1979 Isuzu van that my girlfriend of the time and I had bought while stuck in Santiago awaiting replacement passports after being robbed camping on a beach, good old lemons into lemonade… So anyway we gutted it and made it into our new home on wheels. And here come my parents, meeting me in Buenos Aires to check up on their prodigal son and let me lead them around for three weeks.

My parents are troopers. With Dad already over 70, they are down with staying in a hostel (after some convincing. for 3 days. private room of course). They put up with it all, traveled just like I did, hopped in the van, said good-bye to my girlfriend (who doubled as our translator, we were now relying on my completely worthless Spanish) and off we went to spend the next 8 days in Uruguay, no plans other than to have no plan. I knew I had to sneak this part in quick, they allowed me to plan this trip, but this was not familiar territory for Pops, who I remember as knowing every gas station we’d be stopping at between Wisconsin and New York on childhood journeys. We’ll get to the plans later, and hey, Uruguay is safe and easy, good roads, drinkable water, it’s paint by number winging it really, still fun and challenging for me, but not too much for my all too trusting Ma and Pa to swallow… Day 4 we’re cruising right along, ready to hit Brazil a little early when we spot a side road heading down to Punta del Diablo, Devil’s End, sounds fun, we go to check it out.

I think we all fell in love with place before the end of the first day. We found a cabin right on the beach and somehow between the English spoken by the 10 year old daughter of the owner and my infantile Spanish we managed to rent it for four days. We found out quickly that the roof leaked, the lights ran off small gas tanks which needed to be refilled daily, and we were sharing the place with dozens of sizeable frogs. But we loved it. Maybe what drew me in was the way that everything blends in Punta del Diablo; we loved it as a beach town, a fishing village, off the path resort and surf spot; we shared the beach with hitch-hikers, friends, families, young and old, clean cut, dreaded, people of all shapes, sizes, nationalities, and walks of life. Colorful, traditional, eclectic, and vibrant, Punta del Diablo’s maybe 500 permanent residents host a bohemian assortment of some 15,000 wanderers per day over the summer. Our travels didn’t stop there, but its magic stayed with us.

I spent the next 5 months in Brazil, most of them working in the overlooked and poverty stricken Sertao, from Salvador de Bahia north. But that’s another story. (which I’ll probably post here on Matador anyday now)

When I finally arrived back stateside, 361 days after I left, I had a dream I couldn’t shake. I’d been inspired working in a hostel in Quito, Ecuador, had my eyes opened to a transient community that embodied so many of the things I valued without naming: travel, open eyes, open minds, adventure, challenge, and most of all here were people living life the way they dreamed it. I’d always considered myself capable of just about anything and here came the test, I had a few years of school to finish up, and afterwards I was going to open a hostel, somehow. I worked a summer in Alaska, I worked overtime in several bars during classes, I put together an investment project and met with banks, relatives, friends, anyone who could help make this project a reality.

I needed to define a market, and Punta del Diablo kept coming up, I put the double whammy of my Economics and Poli-Sci degrees to work (yeah, I agree) and Uruguay looked doable. The project grew with the possibilities, the timing was right. We needed a real bar, not just a big lobby with a cooler full of beer. The bar would carry the project. We needed to offer rooms for any style traveler. We needed it to be perfect… I needed to be there.

I came down in September last of year, the El Diablo Tranquilo project was officially underway. And here I found the balance that has transformed this paradise from a highlight of my travels and a home for my project to my home, a home for me. The winters are crisp, clear, and alone. You can wander the gorgeous beaches for miles without seeing more than a far off horse and rider for company, we relish the rare days when a local soccer game gets on TV and provides incentive at least one restaurant or bar to open its doors, we survive on the meager offerings of 3 local grocers, who all happened to be out of onions yesterday. Onions.

The cost of the project is a staggering thing for one kid and his girl down here. Of all the varied jobs I’ve had, none can prepare you for suddenly being faced with every facet of a half million dollar project in a foreign country. Building permits, bank accounts, marketing strategies, business connections, find a lawyer, architect, and builder. Figure out what color the tiles will be, constantly deal with the age issue, the gringo issue, what type of wood for the window frames, who will we buy our beer from, who will come and drink it? After all that, we still need to eat tonight, what is Baking Powder called in Spanish? Daily tasks like buying firewood, finding the good dish soap, figuring out cell phone plans fill a never ending list.

And somehow it all falls into place, it all seems manageable, after those first bewildering moments in bed, you look around, and it turns out you do know what you’re doing here. You are at home. It’s a town of 500, I know my grocer, I see the construction site every day, I am comfortable in our old chairs in front of our little fireplace. I stare out the window and listen to the ocean. Heidi and I are probably the only two native English speakers for 100 miles, she now teaches in the nearest real (4 digit population) town. We live quieter than I’d ever imagined. It wasn’t long ago I was blacking out on a weekly basis and sneaking my friends into the bar I worked at, now we decide whether or not we can afford to split a beer with dinner. I get the project in order and enjoy our peace. And in 3 months we’ll throw the doors open, revel in summer with thousands of new neighbors and a hostel full of wanderers from the world over. And with luck we’ll be looking back on all that was accomplished while making this dream a reality, all the things that happened during my simple life.