Puerto Vallarta Bound

Yelapans harbor ambivalence toward Puerto Vallarta, our big brother in the Bay of Banderas. It is the definitive adore-abhor relationship. We adore the department stores, super markets, Pemex stations, marine supply, and even the much maligned American “big box” outlets. On the other side of the peso, we abhor the crowds, the noise, the speed of language and the traffic while knowing full-well that these are the very requisites for sustaining the opportunities we adore. Alas, even in paradise confusion abounds. Once acknowledged, most of us move on.

On Monday, I needed to make such a trip. THE plan consisted of boarding the 8:30 a.m. water taxi, arriving at Los Muertos Pier around 9:45 a.m., stopping at the ATM and catching a bus to my first errand. Well, things do not always go according to plan. This was one such day. Around 8:15 a.m. the skies darkened and a gentle rain began to fall. No problem, I re-work THE plan to the 9:30 a.m. taxi. On approaching the pier, I encounter several like-planning types who in the aggregate constitute a full taxi. Following a brief pause in Quimixto, plus the obligatory stop in Boca de Tamatlan, we arrive in Vallarta near 11 a.m. My feet kick into auto-walk mode and a few moments hence I am deposited in front of the ATMs at Banorte. There is a line of pale-faced tourists, all set to load their pockets with cash and shop, shop, shop. You gotta love ‘em (and thank you for coming). My turn arrives and I enter the booth. There is a beep-beep-beep emitted by the machine. A quick scan identifies that the preceding patron neglected to extract his bank card. Now this is heady stuff, the one and a half inch by three inch piece of plastic residing in my palm could define bliss or devastation for the remainder of this chap’s visit. The card is conveyed to a gentleman in a suit sitting at a desk, inside the bank. We exchange smiles. 

A two minute walk and I arrive at the major bus stop in the Zona Romantica. The standard fare is seven pesos. That’s a deal! A raised arm signals my wish to board. The bus stops, door opens, following a quick verification of my destination I ascend the stairs, pay my fare, receive my receipt and smiles are exchanged. After twenty minutes or so, my destination appears. I exit the transport, tell the driver “thank you” and he responds with “have a good day.” No doubt, I am one of several hundred people to whom he will extend an identical comment.

My errands complete, I hail a taxi and return to Los Muertos Pier. Inside the cab, the driver proffers the usual question, “are you going to Yelapa?” I proudly disclose that I live there. He continues with sincere inquiries regarding my final destination. His chosen route zig-zags through the cobble stone defined Old Town area. We pass the large open space on the Malecon where entertainers congregate. I spy two Tourist Police in their spotless, starched white uniforms attempting to carry on a conversation. Each maneuvers a Segway; the resulting syncopated ballet is amusing to say the least. My smile greets them as we motor past. I arrive at the pier; I pay, tip and express appreciation. My efforts are met with a sincere response. We smile.

Thirty minutes remain until the “scheduled” departure to Yelapa. The pier is laden with visitors speaking a plethora of languages, walking hand-in-hand and smiling. Children of all ages squeezing the last moments out of their Winter Break dart about. Two Tourist Police on foot sprint about the pier with uncharacteristic intensity. It appears that a band of boys is utilizing the lower pier structure as their personal diving platform. The resulting show is nothing short of side-splitting. The boys swim to one area and scream, the police run to the perceived location. The boys disappear underwater to reappear at another site. They make loud noises again, the police pursue, etc. etc. etc. The entire pier population is in stitches. All laugh and smile. The Tourist Police ultimately realize the doomed nature of their pursuit and strategically retreat. Their efforts draw applause.

Our water taxi pulls into little Yelapa Bay just prior to 3 p.m. The tide has retreated so that the warm earth tones of the beach greet the incoming traveler. It occurs to me that the main beach is shaped like a huge smile. How special is that? It is the perfect ending to a great day; one of many smiles. Thank you, Puerto Vallarta.