We are building an eco retreat in Oaxaca, and we want to tell you the honest story of how it happened. Not the polished version. Not the investor pitch. The real one — the one that starts with a piece of overgrown land near Chacahua, a family conversation about what kind of life we actually wanted to live, and years of learning, mistakes, and slow, deliberate construction that has brought us to where we are today.
This is the story of Montserrat Reserve.
How We Found the Land
The search took longer than we expected. We visited properties across southern Mexico for years — beachfront parcels in Mazunte, hillside plots outside Puerto Escondido, cleared lots near Huatulco that were ready for conventional development. None of them felt right. They were either too developed, too remote, too flat, or too obviously suited for the kind of resort we did not want to build.
Then we found the land near Chacahua, on the coast of Oaxaca, and something shifted.
The property was not easy. The terrain was uneven, the vegetation was dense, and the nearest paved road was a distance away. But the land had character. It had mature trees — parota, ceiba, mango, coconut palms — that had been growing undisturbed for decades. It had natural clearings where the sun hit the ground just right. It had a low area where water collected during the rainy season, forming a temporary pond that attracted birds and insects. And at night, you could hear the ocean.
We did not buy it immediately. We came back three times, during different seasons, to understand how the land changed. We walked every corner of it. We watched where the water ran after a downpour. We noted which trees the birds preferred in the morning and which provided the deepest shade in the afternoon. We learned the wind patterns, the soil texture in different zones, the angle of the sun in December versus June.
Only after that period of observation — almost a full year — did we commit. And even then, we made a promise to ourselves: we would not reshape this land to fit a design. We would design around what was already here.
The Vision
Our vision for the eco retreat was shaped by a question that sounds simple but turned out to be difficult to answer: what would it feel like to stay somewhere that was built with the land rather than on top of it?
We had stayed at beautiful hotels. We had also stayed at eco-lodges that felt like camping with a premium price tag. We wanted something different — a place where sustainability was not a sacrifice but a source of real comfort. Where the architecture emerged from the terrain and the materials came from the earth around it. Where every system, from water to energy to food, was designed to work the way the landscape already worked, just with a place for people to sleep and eat inside it.
We wanted a sustainable hotel in Oaxaca that did not feel like a hotel at all. Something closer to a home. A very intentional, very carefully built home that happened to welcome guests.
That vision led us to independent villas rather than a single building. It led us to a natural pool instead of a conventional one. It led us to organic gardens planted a full year before the first guest would ever arrive. And it led us to a construction approach that prioritized local materials, traditional techniques, and the kind of patience that most developers cannot afford.
Design Decisions That Defined the Project
Every decision we made during the design phase came back to a single principle: does this belong here?
If a material had to be shipped from far away, we looked for a local alternative. If a design element required heavy machinery to install, we found a way to do it by hand. If a feature would look beautiful but demanded ongoing energy or maintenance that the land could not sustain, we let it go.
This principle eliminated a lot of conventional choices early. No air conditioning — instead, we designed the villas with cross-ventilation, thick clay walls that absorb heat during the day and release it slowly at night, and open-eave roofs that let hot air rise and escape. No imported tile — instead, we used local stone for floors and terraces. No treated lumber — instead, we sourced parota wood, a native hardwood that grows abundantly in the region, is naturally resistant to insects and moisture, and develops a rich, golden patina as it ages.
The layout of the property follows the natural clearings. Paths trace the routes that feet had already worn into the earth. The natural pool sits in the depression where water naturally collected during the rains. The garden occupies the area with the richest soil and the most consistent sunlight. Nothing is forced into a spot where it does not want to be.
The Materials: Local Wood, Stone, Clay, and Parota
Building an eco retreat in Mexico means confronting a construction industry that runs on concrete, rebar, and imported finishes. Going a different direction requires stubbornness, resourcefulness, and relationships with people who know how to work with natural materials.
The structural frames of our villas are built from locally harvested hardwoods — primarily parota, but also some cedar and tropical pine where additional strength or flexibility was needed. The parota was sourced from trees that had fallen naturally or were cleared from agricultural land in the surrounding area. None of it came from old-growth forest. We dried the wood naturally over several months, which takes far longer than kiln drying but produces a more stable, more beautiful result.
The walls are finished with clay plaster made from local clay and sand, mixed and applied by hand. Clay plaster is one of the oldest building materials in the world, and there is a reason it has endured: it breathes, it regulates humidity, it provides natural insulation, and it ages beautifully. The warm, earthy tones of our interior walls are not painted on. They are the color of the ground beneath the building.
Stone from the property itself forms the foundations, the pool surround, the terraces, and the pathways between villas. Working with irregular, naturally shaped stone is slower than pouring concrete, but the result is surfaces that feel organic, that change subtly underfoot, that look like they grew out of the landscape rather than being laid on top of it.
The roofs combine traditional palapa construction — dried palm fronds layered over a wooden frame — with terracotta tiles fired in regional kilns. The palm roofs are renewable, naturally waterproof, and remarkably effective at regulating temperature. They also give each villa a silhouette that belongs to this coast, rooted in centuries of coastal Oaxacan building tradition.
The Five Villas
We designed five independent villas, each with its own character, positioned across the property in the natural clearings we identified during our year of observation. They are close enough to share the common spaces — the pool, the garden, the outdoor kitchen — but far enough apart that each one feels private, surrounded by trees and separated by the natural contours of the terrain.
Casa Palma sits closest to the coconut palms that line the southern edge of the property. It was the first villa we designed and carries the most direct expression of our original vision — open walls on two sides, a parota wood frame, and a palm-frond roof that rustles in the breeze. It feels like sleeping inside the canopy.
Casa Manglar takes its name from the mangrove ecosystem of the nearby Chacahua lagoon. It is the most sheltered of the five villas, tucked into a denser part of the property where the vegetation provides natural walls of green. The design emphasizes enclosure and intimacy — smaller windows, deeper overhangs, a private terrace that faces a wall of foliage rather than an open view.
Casa Luna is oriented to catch the moonrise. Its terrace faces east, and we kept the vegetation low on that side so the sky is visible from bed. At night, without the light pollution of a city or even a town, the moon here is extraordinary. The interior is the most pared-back of all five — stone floor, clay walls, a simple wooden bed frame, and almost nothing else. It is a room designed for stillness.
Casa Tierra is the most grounded of the villas, built partially into a gentle slope so that the rear wall is backed by earth. This gives it the most stable interior temperature on the property — cool during the hottest days, warm during the rare cool nights of the coastal winter. The clay plaster inside Casa Tierra is thicker than in the other villas, and the floor is polished concrete mixed with local aggregate, smooth and cool underfoot.
Casa Sol occupies the sunniest clearing on the property and is designed to celebrate light. The roof is slightly higher than the other villas, the windows are wider, and the terrace extends further out. It is the villa that wakes up first in the morning and holds the golden light longest in the evening. The parota wood in Casa Sol has bleached slightly from the extra sun exposure, giving it a lighter, almost honey-colored tone that sets it apart.
You can explore all five on our villas page.
The Natural Pool
We did not want a conventional pool. Chlorine, salt systems, UV treatment — all of them felt wrong for a property built around working with natural systems rather than overriding them.
Instead, we designed a natural pool based on biological filtration. The swimming area is lined with local stone and feeds into a regeneration zone — a shallower, planted section where reeds, water lilies, and other aquatic species filter the water as it circulates. The plants absorb nutrients and impurities. Beneficial microorganisms break down organic matter. The water returns to the swimming area clean, soft, and free of chemicals.
The pool sits in the natural depression where water already collected during the rainy season. We deepened it, shaped the edges, lined it with stone, and created the regeneration zone along one side. The result is a pool that looks like a natural pond — because, in a real sense, it is one. Just one that is designed to be safe and comfortable for swimming.
Building a natural pool requires more upfront design work than a conventional pool. The regeneration zone has to be properly sized relative to the swimming area. The circulation system has to move water slowly enough for the plants to do their work but consistently enough to prevent stagnation. The plant species have to be chosen for this specific climate and water chemistry. We worked with specialists who had built similar systems in other parts of Mexico, and we spent months getting the balance right.
The reward is a pool that requires no chemical inputs, produces no chemical waste, supports a small ecosystem of its own, and gives swimmers an experience that is fundamentally different from anything you get in a chlorinated box. The water feels softer. It smells like water, not like a swimming pool. And on a warm evening, when the light hits the surface and the dragonflies hover over the regeneration zone, it is one of the most beautiful places on the entire property.
The Organic Garden
We planted the garden before we finished the villas. That was intentional. Soil needs time to develop. Fruit trees need years before they produce. We wanted the garden to be mature and productive by the time the first guests arrived, not an afterthought being coaxed into life while people watched.
The garden is designed on permaculture principles — layered planting that mimics natural ecosystems. Tall fruit trees (mango, papaya, guava, banana, coconut) provide the canopy. Underneath, smaller fruit-bearing plants and nitrogen-fixing shrubs enrich the soil. At ground level, herbs, greens, chiles, squash, and root vegetables rotate through the seasons. Ground covers retain moisture and suppress weeds. Companion planting handles pest management without chemicals.
The composting system closes the loop. Kitchen scraps, garden trimmings, fallen leaves — everything organic goes back into the soil through hot composting and vermicomposting with red wigglers. We have never purchased fertilizer for this property, and we never intend to.
The garden feeds the kitchen, and what the kitchen serves depends on what the garden gives. That is not a limitation. It is the entire point. Guests eat food that was growing in the ground that morning, prepared simply, with the full flavor that comes from rich soil and no chemical intervention.
Building Off-Grid: The Real Challenges
We want to be honest about this part, because building an eco retreat is not a fairy tale. It is hard. It is slow. And some days, it tests every conviction you have about doing things the right way.
Sourcing materials locally sounds romantic until you realize that “locally” sometimes means driving unpaved roads to negotiate with a farmer who has parota logs but no way to transport them. Drying wood naturally sounds purist until you are six months behind schedule because the rainy season extended and the lumber will not cure. Building with clay plaster sounds beautiful until a section of wall cracks during a dry spell and has to be redone entirely.
Working with the terrain rather than against it means accepting that the terrain does not care about your timeline. A slope that looks stable in the dry season might shift during the rains. A clearing that seems perfect for a villa might turn out to have root systems underground that you cannot cut through without killing a tree you wanted to keep. Every week brought a new negotiation between our plans and the reality of the land.
The remoteness of the location near Chacahua adds another layer of complexity. Skilled craftspeople who know traditional building techniques are not always available when you need them. Specialized materials, even natural ones, sometimes have to come from hours away. Communication infrastructure is limited, which makes coordination with suppliers and consultants a constant exercise in patience.
But the challenges are also what make the project real. Every problem we solved taught us something about this specific piece of land, this climate, this community. The villa that had to be shifted three meters to the left because of a root system now has a better view than the original plan. The wall that cracked and was replastered came back with a deeper, richer texture. The delays forced us to slow down and reconsider decisions that, in hindsight, we would have gotten wrong if we had moved faster.
Sustainability as a System, Not a Feature
Our sustainability practices are not amenities. They are not things we added to the property to earn a certification or justify a price point. They are the structural logic of how the entire place works.
Solar energy powers the property. Photovoltaic panels on secondary structures generate enough electricity for lighting, kitchen equipment, water pumps, and the common-area Wi-Fi. Battery storage carries us through the night and cloudy stretches. The Oaxacan coast receives roughly 2,500 hours of sunlight per year, which makes solar the obvious — and most reliable — choice.
Rainwater collection provides the majority of our water. Every roof channels rain into underground cisterns during the wet season (June through October), and the stored water is filtered and distributed for irrigation, cleaning, and non-potable uses throughout the year. Overflow goes into swales that recharge the local water table rather than running off into the sea.
Greywater recycling sends water from sinks and showers through a constructed wetland where gravel beds and aquatic plants remove soaps and organic matter before the water is reused for irrigation. Only biodegradable, plant-based products are used on the property, ensuring the greywater is safe for soil and plants.
Composting handles all organic waste on-site. Nothing leaves the property that could be returned to the soil.
These are not separate initiatives. They are connected systems that feed into each other, just like the natural systems they are modeled on. The rain falls on the roof, goes into the cistern, waters the garden, grows the food, feeds the guests, creates the compost, enriches the soil, grows the next season’s food. Each output becomes an input somewhere else.
Why the Name Matters
Montserrat Reserve is named after Montserrat — our daughter. It is a personal name, not a geographic one, and it carries weight that goes beyond branding.
This project exists because of her and, in many ways, for her. The decision to build something rooted in care for the land, something that would last and grow and improve over time rather than extract and deplete — that decision was shaped by the experience of becoming parents and asking ourselves what kind of world we wanted to leave behind.
The name Montserrat means “serrated mountain” in Catalan, a reference to the jagged peaks near Barcelona. But for us, it means something quieter. It means the kind of love that shows up in small, deliberate choices. The angle of a roof. The species of tree you plant. The decision to use clay instead of concrete, even when concrete would be faster. Every detail at the reserve reflects the values she embodies: patience, attention, and the belief that beautiful things take time.
This is a family-led project in every sense. The decisions are made around a kitchen table, not in a boardroom. There are no investors, no hospitality consultants, no brand strategists. Just a family building something honest on a piece of land that asked for care, not extraction.
What Comes Next
We are close. The villas are nearing completion. The garden is producing. The natural pool is circulating and clear. The solar system is online. The paths between the villas are worn in by our own feet.
Montserrat Reserve opens in 2027 for a small number of founding guests. We are not rushing to fill every night. We want to open slowly, learn from each guest’s experience, and continue refining the systems and the spaces as the property matures.
If this story resonates with you — if you have been looking for a place that was built with the kind of care and intention we have described here — we would love to welcome you as one of our first guests. Join the waitlist for priority access and founding-guest pricing. No pressure, no hard sell. Just a standing invitation to come and see what it feels like to stay somewhere that was built, from the ground up, to belong to the land it sits on.