The Rain (The back story)

Since the rains returned, there’s a palpable release of tension. The uncertainty which accompanies the month of June relates to the timing of that arrival. Once June begins, the village has been without rain since the prior September, eight months. Average humidity begins at 40%, skin and eyes remain moist, and womens’ hair explodes into frizz. There’s a reason why they refer to this belt on the globe as The Tropics.

Walk back with me to the first week in June. The village is upbeat as the certain arrival of inches of moisture will brighten the greens of the jungle even further. The lagoon, fed by the Tuito River, warehouses small frog laden pools of water which shrink daily. Week two arrives with anticipation heightened based upon a history that by the end of this particular seven day stretch, our weather lives will be altered. Week three follows and a discernible depression stalks our pueblo’s pathways; still no evidence of rain. Afternoon clouds roll in and embrace the ridgelines but nary a drip is dropped. Worry lines reside across the foreheads of the elders. All conversation is monopolized by this single topic. Week four begins: day one-nothing; day two-a twenty minute sprinkle; day three-a two hour moderate rain complete with the requisite lightening/thunder dynamics; day four—all hell breaks loose with twin two-hour bursts. The associated lightening/thunder crafts a world class show. 

Engorged creeks surge to join the Tuito; the river angrily attacks its banks. During the night, this anger drives the flow over and later thru a twelve foot tall sandbar which remained undisturbed for the past eight months. The river’s hue producing passenger, tons of silt, is re-deposited by early morning turning the entire bay a creamy coffee brown. It is not a pleasant sight just another testimony to the furor of Mother Nature. In a pair of days it clears.

Audible sighs ascend like tiny dialogue bubbles above the roof tops of our village. We all shift into Plan-R (rain). Those pangas sans bilge pumps must be hand-bailed succeeding each deluge, day or night. One or two will sink while tethered to their moorings. They always do. Socializing, erranding, shopping and dining revolve around afternoon/evening downpours whose timing is inexact guaranteeing the full spectrum of personal wetness. Wash will hang on makeshift lines, and hang, and hang, and hang.

An aura of contentment returns. Village life embraces seasonal certainties: humidity, heat, power outages, tempestuous seas, water running everywhere and soon to arrive, everyone’s favorite (NOT) multiple crab migrations. (A future blog posting will address this singular event.) While these components won’t define the perfect get-a-way for much of the traveling public, they will define the parameters of life in Yelapa for the ensuing three months. The village draws comfort from these norms. It was uncertainty which birthed their anxiety. No doubt, a cultural universal, wouldn’t you say?             

Commercial Break

I’m still on the playita everyday, rain or not. Consider me something akin to a blend between the Ancient Mariner and your  post man only on a kayak. Also great news, I now have a new cell phone, same number 322 146 5064, so you can always reach me to check availability—(kayaks, not mine). Happy paddling.  

The Rain

Yelapa was taunted the prior two nights with the beginning of the rainy season. Each delivered sprinkles, a minor light show and cool morning temps. For a village which hasn’t seen moisture since last September, this is an event worth celebrating. Last night, the real thing landed. Intermittently, for nearly four hours, we experienced rain, lightening, thunder and a light show that would surpass any stateside 4^th of July celebration. Villagers knew “la lluvia” had returned.

Like any event in a small community, it demands discussion. During birria this morning at Shambhala, the topic absorbed every word of every moment. Invariably, the discourse drifted to where were you when the “big one” hit? Allow me to respond. The storm moved in roughly 9:15 pm ish. Nikki and I were contemplating a movie on the rent-a channel but nothing seeming to jump out. In the Bay of Banderas, incoming storms afford the observer a certain predictability. From the moment you observe the first lightening (relampago) and its associated thunder (trueno), there is generally a ten minute interval until the rain begins. This is rumored to relate to an ancient contract regarding the early indigenous peoples of Cabo Corrientes so that they could safely return their pangas to shore. No one seems certain.

The storm in question followed the prescribed procedure. By 9:30 pm it was into full tilt. Lightening, thunder and rain merged, disaggregated and merged again for the ensuing four hours. Now that’s a typical Yelapa rain storm. I have never experienced lightening and its twin, thunder as we have it here. The flashes continue to outline a portion of the horizon for a half minute of so. Brother thunder enters the arena seamlessly and crescendos to a point of nuclear detonation. At each of these intersections an enormous globe of moisture opens further.

This is not an event which endears itself to the canine populace. Nikki, our English Shepherd, typically seeks shelter at the first flash, forget waiting for the certain thunder to follow. However, last night was slightly different. We both retired early. As the storm played out across the sky; Nikki and I settled. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes passed and I was drifting off when BAM, an incoming rocket of electricity nailed some piece of damp turf to the front of our casita. While I must have levitated nearly a foot, Nikki burrowed beneath the terra cotta tile.

Upon departing Casa Azul this morning, I noticed the array of greens adorning the trees and brush along my path. The rains deleted all prior evidence of dirt resident for months. The rocks, which promoters reference as romantic cobble stones, shone as if individually buffed.

I greeted my friends at Shambhala. We shared the ritual of birria rica together. The calmness of the bay, the morning sounds of the jungle and a humming bird dancing effortlessly all reminded me of why I live here. The mounting humidity reminded me of why I depart for a few months. It was a good day to be a Yelapan!  

Commercial Break

Worried about kayaking in the rain, don’t. All the pangas are taller than you are just keep your paddle low. Summer rates are in effect, even greater discounts for multi-day rentals. Text me, Memo, for availability at 322 146 5064 (cell). Happy paddling.

Bears in the Jungle

You know that bears do not inhabit the jungle or tropical climates, right? So just what is it that I am attempting to say? Ah, I thought you’d never ask.

In Yelapa, there are several really large men. We’re talking the size of tackles for the New England Patriots. These are big guys. The first one with whom you are likely to come in contact is Sipriano. Along with an ever-present orange Truper wheelbarrow (caretilla), he plies his trade of baggage porter, cargo hauler or just general diseminator of Yelapa information. His toothy smile beams from one end of the town pier to the other. He and I share abusive greetings, he shouts “hey gordo” and I respond “hey flaco.” We grin and chuckle, this is Yelapa. For a reasonable fee, Sipriano will transport your luggage or packages to their destination. He traverses the hills of town many times each day. His bodily profile is bisected by a black kidney belt. Instead of granting him a svelte hour-glass appearance, it looks more like a broad rubber band stretched tautly around the center of a large potato. If it is intended to add to his comedic ambiance, then it accomplishes this well. He is a gentle giant and a trusted villager.

Our second bear, known to anyone who has visited Yelapa, is Pajuelas. He can be spotted at a great distance, or even off in the bay, as the result of his signature piece of apparel—a Rasta hat. He is a member of the family which owns/operates Tacos y Mas and the Rosewood Shop on the path up to the town falls. He also free lances as an outboard motor mechanic. His travels throughout town invariably include a handful of disciples. A pony tail descends his back; an infectious aura of laughter accompanies this man like a ray of sunshine. When he chuckles, which is more often than not, his entire girth engages. He is a friend to all.      

Our third bear is Sami. Ah, where does one begin when describing Sami? This gentleman is “somewhat” challenged in height yet abundantly blessed in width; something akin to a plump grapefruit with little legs. This physical set-up does not lend itself to walking the streets of Yelapa, so he relies heavily on a blue moto (quad). Now most motos make noise, the older the moto, the more noise it makes. Sami has an old moto, yet he is the only human in town who can be heard a block down the road while revving his moto up a hill. He has a highly-pitched voice capable of disintegrating wine bottles two kilometers away. Sami’s occupational specialty is doing things that no one else wants to do: 1) he picks up and collects anything which is metal (refrigerators, washing machines, sinks etc.) transports them on his panga and sells the metal for scrap. As a result of his sole effort, perhaps a dozen panga loads of rusty, unsightly metal were removed from Yelapa. 2) he is available on short notice to haul people and stuff to Boca as well as pick up people and stuff from Boca—naturally this is on a fee basis. 3) of late there is a sign posted at Sami’s front door—Organic Chicken and Duck Eggs for sale. No telling what could be next, but you can bet he’ll be on it. If you ever need him, he’s easy to find. Walk down to his house next to Yuri’s Market; look inside; if you see Sami sitting on his moto in his living room watching TV, then he’s available.

These are but three of the bears that inhabit Yelapa. Feel free to feed or offer drink to them. They don’t bite. Much to the contrary, they typify the warmth of our village. We are lucky to have them.  Gracias

Commercial Break

Kayaks at summer discounted rates are this week’s specialty. My cell is dead so contact me at 209 5110 if you’d like to go out. Happy paddling--memo

Manuel Labor (Part 2)

I previously posted about the Herculean efforts of one young laborer, as he transported concrete blocks from a ground level staging area up a primitive ladder and onto a roof top. This task he performed alone and in silence seven hours a day for six straight days. I was humbled.

Over the intervening days, water and electrical lines are chiseled (Mexican style) into their desired locations. A team of two or three men are present each day hand-mixing small amounts of concrete, framing, twisting or grinding. Their work commences 8ish and continues until it flirts with the heat of the day around 3ish. This rhythm self-replicates six or seven times per week. Manuel is ever-present.

The most celebrated day of any construction projecgt is not the day it commences, nor is it the day the family moves in. (It is common in Yelapa for the family to reside in the structure as it is being built. Such documentary formalities as Certificates of Occupancy do not exist.) Back to my story—the most significant day/event in the entire construction process is the day the roof is poured. At that time much of the available local labor pool is marshaled to efficiently and expediently transport concrete from Point A to Point B. Today, a dozen such chaps appeared with five gallon plastic pails in tow.

Their task is made somewhat easier by a power mixer. It is strategically placed between mounds of cement bags, gravel bags and a ridge of sand. The most senior position, aside from the foreman atop the structure, appeared to be the person in possession of a large flat-edged shovel. That individual would dictate to the four member Mixing Crew the amount of any ingredient required to craft the best batch of concrete. There would be no discussion, only one-way directives. The remaining gang of eight would do the heavy lifting, literally. They cue up next to the mixer, receive a quantity of grey sludge, hoist it onto a shoulder, hike up to the roof to await the foreman’s direction as to the appropriate dump site. This process continues uninterrupted for more than five hours. No one, I repeat no one stops to talk, smoke, drink, rub or scratch anything that entire time. Apparently the following construction mantra prevails “Concrete waits for no man.” Visually, (see the video on my FB) three concentric circles rotated clockwise intersecting at the point occupied by the mixer. Hourly or so, the three circles briefly collapse then reconstitute around a task previously performed by a neighboring circle. The synchronicity is Olympic in its execution.

As the final pails are filled, hoisted, transported and dumped, the group of twelve amass silently in the shade of a low hung tree. A few light cigarettes, others retrieve bottles of water; the majority slump forward with forearms resting on thighs. They disband as uneventfully as they amass. Some ponder a shower and a siesta, others a cold liter bottle of beer to celebrate while others relish their fist full of pesos to save towards their own construction project-----someday. Manuel is lost in the crowd as he descends the hill.

Commercial Break

The water is warm, the bay is calm and the price on my kayak rentals is right. See me (memo) on the playita. Happy paddling.              

Marina Day

There is an absoluteness defining the silence of a new morn following a major fiesta in our village. The canine corp intuitively delays its piercing yaps while the roosters appear to have vanished to some poultry retreat. Family elders engaged in street sweeping and greeting delay. The air is stilled by a fog which suspends any observable animation. Heads full of brew from the prior night have yet to awaken and throb. It is the quiet before the hangover storm.

The first weekend of June is designated Dia de la Marina to celebrate the activities of all those who live, work and play on the sea. The celebration begins mid-day Saturday with families in their pangas floating a wreath in Banderas Bay to honor those who have gone before. The boats return to Yelapa Bay and the party begins. There is the opening egging as children, big and small, chase others to anoint the pursued with the fruit of the hen. A rented DJ presses the power button and techno music (???) belches from four speakers, each the size of a port-a-potty. Locals offer all sorts of ceviche and finger food. An actual panga pulled up onto the beach, courtesy of El Buly, functions as a cooler and offers transitory refuge to countless cases of mini-beer. Collections of swim suit clad young women undulate to the primordial drum beats. Larger groups of imbibing men mask their staring at the dancers and then find solace in patting, rubbing and scratching their overhanging bellies. Let the fiesta begin.

The balance of the day plays out along similar lines. The afternoon highlight is the team climbing of a greased pole. This involves the same male groups mentioned above attempting to organize and then execute a plan to scale the greased power pole and retrieve a cache of cash affixed to the top. By this time in the afternoon the aforementioned groups of men are neither capable of organizing nor executing anything. They tumble frequently and relish in their demonstrated inabilities.

The evening is punctuated with a rodeo, Yelapa style, at the far end of the village. Additional quantities of food and beverage sustain whatever feelings of invincibility were instilled earlier in the day. Actual vaqueros, cowboys, straddle immense bulls and attempt to remain vertical for several seconds. More often than not, their success rate mirrors that of the pole climbers; but once in a rare while one is successful and an immense cheer erupts.

It is Sunday morning. Signs of life imerge. The beach party aspect of the fiesta will resume at mid-day. More solid/liquid refreshments to be consumed, more music and undulating to be stared upon and more overhanging bellies in need of much rubbing and scratching. Monday will arrive, as it always has. Over the next few days any evidence of this ancient ritual will be archived and erased. Once again the dogs will bark, the roosters will crow and a less frenetic level of activity will re-visit our village. Aaaah, la vida tranquila (the calm life).    

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Commercial Break

My regularly scheduled office hours will return on Monday. Remember, additional discounts beyond current low rates, are available for multi-day rentals. Happy paddling. memo