Jungle Journal Archives - La Colina Project

The further we go the nearer we are

May 11, 2022May 11, 2022
by Beave

It has come to my attention that I have been happily ensconced in my jungle bubble here for years. Jayne has had a few trips North to Canada but it has been many a moon since I have left Nayarit. We have had loose plans to visit much praised areas of Mexico and expand our horizons. We have had looser plans to perhaps visit family in the UK or head up North to Burning Man again. This, for all the reasons, hasn’t happened. A mix of lethargy, laziness, a pandemic and the fact we live in such a spectacular place has pretty much removed our motivation to go anywhere.

We are, thankfully, surrounded by more motivated, organized and adventurous folk. A few of them have spent a lump of time and energy organizing exciting things in temptingly remote places. In the unique environment of our local Mezcaleria where our good friends are hosting a night of DJ nonsense, we learn of one such exciting plan. After a strategic quantity of Mezcal we invite ourselves along.

The plan is to take a number of flights and taxis and end up in San Miguel Allende. We know of many who have lived or visited and all wax lyrical about its delights. The purpose of the trip is to support a fundraiser for the Mayan Warrior. The Mayan Warrior is a huge art car in the form of an ancient spirit animal, built on a truck body. Along with a world class sound system it has installed upon it the most spectacular (and barely legal) lasers available to man. In remote places such as the Black Rock desert at the Burning Man event in Nevada it offers to those that make the journey a treat of truly stunning lights and sounds. They are selling a few thousand tickets to dinners, parties and a late-night event to raise the money to take the beast back to Burning man this year. This is deemed a suitable enough excuse for us to make the trip. We are in.

It’s March and for the first time in a few years the Cirque De Los Niño’s is putting on their show. Gilles Ste-Croix (the co-founder of Cirque du Soleil) steps up and works his magic again. Thanks to his world class training, costumes and production skills the kids again put on a truly spectacular night once again.

Our planning for the Scorpion Temple build is at an end. Materials are bought, builders chosen and deposits paid. A troop of boys are descending on our site every morning and making satisfyingly loud buildy noises. It’s going up fast.

We have our brand-new fridge, sink, taps and oven in our new bodega awaiting a place to be. Our list of stuff to acquire is long but we have some months to get it together. On the list is to choose a thing to become our new kitchen counter tops. This is not something that I was expecting to get excited about until we arrive at a warehouse filled with shiny bits of stone. Out the front was as extraordinary stunning lump of mesmeric beauty. It looks like a massive three-dimensional satellite photo of a storm over a grey sea. I am smitten. We are now the proud owners of a very unique slice of Italian mountain.

There are flowers on our vanilla vine. We have only just processed last season’s harvest and here we go again ! The pollination ladders are ready. We are on a roll. Irrigation tests are a clear success. Sun and water makes for crops. Who knew ! Our first bed is now full to burst with rocket and lettuce. A ton of salads are in our future. We spend the time creating more water lines to the other two beds. Seeds are planted and expectations are high.

It’s time to leave. Our mate moves into the treehouse and we head to the airport. We are away for four days. It’s been a long while since I got on a plane. In my past life, I took up to 50 flights a year and I really don’t miss airports at all. This is the longest time I have ever been required to wear a mask. It’s not at all comfortable but everyone conforms. We arrive on San Miguel Allende as the sunsets. It’s a stunning old town built in 1542 full of colonial and Mexican buildings. Our initial oversize Airbnb is both large ( colonial) and dark (Mexican). A bit too dark due to no electricity. After a late night explore to find the roughest bar in town we camp down for the night and arrange to move to another place in the morning.

We absolutely score with our new gaff. It is a mansion of a place in the guts of town. A huge wooden door opens into a courtyard lounge and bar area with four huge bedrooms and a large kitchen. It’s a short walk over cobblestone to the neo-Gothic church Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel, whose dramatic pink limestone towers loom above the main plaza. All around town the sun lights up bright purple blossoms of the Jacaranda trees. We meet up with friends and find out that the thousand or so tourists here for the weekend of events have an enemy in town. The new major has decided that he is not a fan of large sound and light events. He has cancelled the weekend. San Miguel Allende now has a large contingent of over excited ravers with nowhere to go.

It’s not good news but we all make the best of it. We eat everything and drink some things. The place is crammed with culture, shopping and art. We are in good place in good company. We find a couple who invite us to an art exhibition opening in their shop and the DJ they hire invites us to his place for a late-night house party. We dress up and turn up to find a massive house filled with music and hundreds of people who were expecting to be jumping around an over sized spirit animal instead of some generous random bloke’s massive front room and courtyard. Everyone is grateful for the chance to dance. Eventually we leave San Miguel Allende inspired and exhausted.

On our return, we slip back into jungle life. It’s all rather splendid and we are glad to be home. We meet a new stranger from Canada who tells us she is looking for a place to put some of her art. She stays for a few days at the Casitas and works on a mural for our retaining wall then leaves for further adventures. We are grateful she found us.

A few unexpected things are happening in UK . I haven’t seen my mum or my brother’s family since my Dads funeral. It’s been years. Our recent trip has me in travelling mood. Jayne is heading into a few weeks of intense deadline stuff so the timing is entirely unforeseen but perfect. The internet offers me a one way direct flight to London for not a lot and I buy it. I leave in 48 hours.

Our mad English friend Karl who is a skilled chef and born horseman is coming back to town. He has a wife and home in Durango state but has spent the last few years in our area. A year ago, he left his restaurant here to start an adventure. He found two rescue horses and set off to travel the 255-km length of the last river to flow through the Western Sierra Madres. The San Pedro Mezquital is the seventh biggest river in Mexico but almost unknown. It connects vast areas of some of the most challenging land Mexico can muster. it sustains thousands of people, unique wildlife and four indigenous ethnic tribes who mostly consider it a water source only. Karl’s mission has been to visit and integrate into the communities along the whole length of the river and educate them as to its importance to their very survival. He has lectured to schools and town meetings for many months. He has inspired a group of river guardians who have now committed to conserve and honour the river for future generations. We have been following his progress for over 6 months and sending supplies and money to feed and shoe the horses; and Karl occasionally. He has arrived back in one skinny sun-bleached piece with many stories to tell. Thanks to excellent care, his horses survived the journey well and are now loving the slower life of beach side Nayarit with a lot more food. It’s great to see them all alive and well.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MavNbfnw4Z4

I have packed light with a heap of room in my bag to bring back stuff. There is clearly going to be a lot of stuff. The plane is packed with slightly pinker and slightly fatter package holiday tourists who have spent two solid weeks trawling the buffets and bars within their 5 star all-inclusive resorts that splatter the Puerto Vallarta shoreline. On the plane, there is a thick atmosphere of hangovers, farts and heartburn. I am disappointed that I am not encouraged to wear a mask. For a treacly slow 12-hour flight, I fail in my attempts to sleep. A cold wet morning at Gatwick Airport awaits us all.

It’s bloody freezing. I have gone proper soft. Mexico has ruined me for weather. I drag my bags onto a train to St Pancras where I will hop another train North and be back in Darlington for the first time in 5 years by early afternoon. Potentially. I have friends in York who I might well meet with on the way. It’s been way too many years since I had a pint of real draught Guinness and York is full of pubs. I’m finding the glorious anticipation of that first black sip seducing. Imagining the cold glass and the white fresh creamy head hitting my top lip as the deepest and darkest of all heavenly delights pours over my tongue. It’s like a dream. Maybe because I am asleep. Then my phone rings. I’m struggling to gain consciousness and find the source of the phone noise. My mate who is currently in Barcelona has chosen this moment to call me. Good timing. It’s my stop. I nearly miss it. I manage to leap onto the station platform with my backpack in one hand and my phone in the other. It’s stopped ringing. The doors close and the train moves off to Cambridge. With my bag.

It’s a bit of a stress finding staff to help my thoroughly jet lagged moron of a self. I make all the calls and fill in all the forms but it’s the UK. We are not good at this stuff. I decide after a few futile hours of navigating Transport for London’s insane lost and found rabbit holes that I will never see my bag again and I’m just to get over it. I console myself by finding a Greggs bakery and demolishing two steak bakes. Bliss. Two hours and twelve long minutes later I arrive in York station with a 3 year Guinness thirst. It is splendid to see mates and just as splendid to finally make my Guinnessy dreams come true. Four times.

My first job when I arrived in Darlington was to find some clothes so my newly delicate UK person didn’t freeze to death. It’s a barmy 15 degrees in Darlington which is effectively local bikini weather but I’m nithered!! I am wrapped in layers of local supermarket clothing for men. Despite this my knees are achingly cold. My knees?? Who am I???

My dear mate has spent lockdown building a rustic wooden cabin at the bottom of his garden. He has done a splendid job. I spend my first few days living there in absolute comfort. Only a few weeks earlier they had yet another big post pandemic “clear out” and I am presented with a dark wooden pot that I recognise. It’s from Zambia and older than me. They decided not to throw it out but didn’t know what it was. It’s a stunning moment. My entire music and photo life was transferred and stored onto hard-drives and brought to Mexico where they were a victim of our break-in. I have had to accept the fact that all my photos of every feature of my slightly bizarre life were gone forever. Every single one of the many hundreds of CDs I burned onto hard drives were gone forever. What I forgot was I backed them all up on a bunch of USBs and stored them in an old pot. This is the pot!! Having my digital history back is absolutely worth this trip. Everything else is now a bonus.

There are many bonus things. Jayne gets an email in Mexico to tell me my bag has been delivered to the lost property office at Cambridge train station and is available to collect. I rent a car and set off at 7 am to arrive in Cambridge, thanks to old roads and all the traffic, around midday. I confidently and gratefully present myself to the customer services desk at the station and show them the email inviting me to collect my bag. We all know that the concept of customer service is certainly differently understood in various parts of the world. At a train station in Cambridge it takes on a new level of irony. There are no words spoken as a dazed looking girl in a “customer friendly uniform” leaves her desk and vanishes behind glass doors to presumably retrieve my lost bag. She returns with a slip of paper. With a tone of voice that has contempt mixed with intense boredom she explains that it’s not there and these people have it. There is no name on the paper, just a number. Who has it? I ask. She nods unhelpfully at the paper. On it is a telephone number that I have rang a dozen times over the past few days. The telephone number eventually takes you through to a long drawn our menu where you chose number seven. This eventually takes you to a recorded message asking you to explain why you are calling, describe any lost item and leave a number that they will only call if they find something. I have had no calls. I explain to the impervious idiot that this is no good to me. I can’t wait here for a few days just in case they call. She then states that she feels uncomfortable with my attitude. I request she calls security. They may have more sympathy with my plight.

I leave the station to regain my composure. I have to make sense of what is happening. After a few deep breaths, I return to the station and walk up to the bloke who has the best uniform. He must be important. I tell him my tale and he takes pity. He tells me the name of a company he “thinks” takes care of lost property but in order to find out I have to ring the useless number. With a little help from Google and a few other random employees I bother, I work out that it is possible my bag has been kidnapped and is now held in Welwyn Garden City. This is only a couple of hours away.

Welwyn Garden City is one of 30 garden cities in the UK. It was founded in 1920 by Sir Ebenezer Howard as a planned town to provide for both industry and pleasant living conditions. I’m sure in 1920 it was lovely. The industrial estate I find is less than pleasant but I’m happy to see the storage warehouse. I knock on the windows and the door is opened by a confused looking girl. I explain that I’m searching for my bag. I hand her the paper with the useless number on it. I think she recognised the number as the one she has been ignoring for days. I spotted a flash of pity and guilt in her eyes. She told me that for some reason that she was uncertain of, I was absolutely not allowed to come and collect my lost things from their lost property warehouse. Despite that she finds my bag and returns it to me within 3 minutes. I am deeply grateful to be dealing with a real person again. I thank her effusively and tell he she will be responsible for my happy noises all day. She seemed good with that.

On my way, back North I pop in and see my Mum in Lincolnshire. I arrange to return the next week when I get to see my brother and his family as well. The likelihood of them coming to Mexico is not high so it’s important to be here. I get to see my daughter who I haven’t seen since she left our place pre-Covid days. That seems like a lifetime away. I even got to interview her new boyfriend. He already has the job but it was good that she made me feel like my opinion mattered. Suzy is due to visit us in a few weeks which is excellent news. I also get to stay with my son who I haven’t seen since he left our place 9 months ago. It’s been far too long

I am collected by my mate who was given the task of dumping all my stuff that I had failed to sell or give away before I left. He has a van so I slipped him a few quid before I left for Mexico to gather all my bits and bobs and chuck them in a skip. The ultimate release of past things to make room for new. Well that was the theory anyway. As it turned out my good buddy took one look at my pile of crap and decided that it all had a future. When I asked him to chuck everything he actually chucked nothing. Bless him. I’m taken to a warehouse at the local airport where his brother has a business. There is a ladder resting next to the office. I climb up and in front of me, laid out neatly is about ten cubic meters of my life in boxes. It’s sorta kinda emotional. There are a lot of treasures here I’m glad to see again. There are even love letters from lifetimes ago when my ex girlfriends used to like me. I spend days in that warehouse carefully putting strange and ridiculous things aside while throwing out most . I find thousands of actual real life photographs. I put the good ones aside and take snaps as best I can with my phone . There are so many. I have a lot of fun distributing handfuls of the most embarrassing ones to old friends who are now less hairy, less skinny and less pretty.

There are hundreds of books. Some my daughter will take but she will have to invest heavily in shelving. Most are earmarked for charity. It is very likely that all the rest of the clothing, DVDs , CDs and bootlegged cassette tapes from 80s Bangkok will end up rejected by charity shops.

Another friend that I know is a musician and vinyl maestro. He has thousands of old school LPs in his house. He has been spending lockdown helping a friend open a shop in the centre of Darlington that is a treasure trove of nostalgic classics. Alongside a fair selection of vinyl albums there are DVDs, Video games, Old comic books, an entire floor of old books and a large selection of Airfix model kits. Its a great space to hangout. It’s always a pleasure to see the bugger but I am compelled to warn him I have a the hundreds of books and DVDs along with a heap of dodgy cassette tapes and CDs stored in a dusty lockup with his name on them . When we arrive unannounced in the middle of the day and unload a vast quantity of mildly interesting and mostly obsolete crap into his shop he takes it very well. He may not be as pleased to see me next time.

The unique delights of black pud, thick bacon and egg on a buttered crumpet with brown sauce. PERFECT !

Darlington, it has to be said is a more depressing place post COVID. There are too many shops and gathering places closed down. It’s a ghost town during the week. No-one goes out. In the process of walking to my favourite Indian restaurant around 8 pm every night, 6 days in a row (don’t judge me ) I saw how deserted the town has become. The few pubs that are open throw people out before 10 pm. I meet many friends and they all tell me similar tales. They haven’t been out or socialising for years. Everyone’s gas and electricity bills have trebled so it’s like having two mortgages. No one has any spare cash, no one goes out or sees each other much. The last time my previously super social friends were together was for my dear friends’ funeral last year. It took one of our finest to die to get people together again. It’s hard enough to get folk out to the pub. The chances of them getting on a plane to Mexico are looking slim.

The simple delights of the Sunday Paper, a mug of tea and a crumpet with Marmite XO.

My visit was a catalyst to get a number of folk out of their new routines and into curry houses and pubs again, even for a short while. It was extraordinary to instantly reconnect with friends after 5 years apart. Seemed like yesterday and forever at the same time. I buy myself a flight home. It has been special to see my people but it is an undisputed real thing that my home is now the jungle we share outside San Pancho in Nayarit Mexico.

Jungle Journal

New Power, Scorpion Stairs & Logan’s Run.

March 15, 2022March 15, 2022
by Beave

It makes a proper change, but can’t complain about the heat or humidity or much else these lovely days. We have had a number of mates finally feel safe enough to fly down to spend time with us without getting Covid-trapped. Having fresh eyes and minds here always makes us even more grateful to live here. Our life continues to be blessed with challenges and endless opportunities. Thanks to some begging and generous luggage allowances our stock of liquorice all-sorts, tea, whisky and reading glasses are also entirely restored.

We have had a few permaculture victories. Jayne has commissioned the first of our planter beds with her irrigation system. The planter box is getting a full five minutes of water (automatically via our water timer) every morning. The result of regular watering is dramatic. For the first time, we have healthy shoots of lettuce, rocket, cabbage and asparagus appearing from the seeds we planted. This is the first time we have had such a result. Our failure to propagate seeds may have partly been down to the quality and age of the seeds but most likely neglect. Watering “when we get around to it” is not a good strategy.

Jayne’s mushroom bucket suddenly bears fruit! A stonking great oyster mushroom appears and is harvested. This is not only a very attractive variety but also has a surprisingly strong and delicious mushroomy taste. We await many more but they don’t appear. After a week or so we give up and throw the remaining straw over the balcony. Not sure how but the next day the smashed straw bundle in the jungle has produced a flush of new mushrooms. Result.

Our vanilla vine has now been completely plucked of beans and most of these are now in the latter stages of becoming perfectly sticky and stinky. They are wrapped in a blanket for the cool nights and released to sunbathe on the balcony by day. Our afternoons are punctuated by welcome breezes carrying the unctuous odor of vanilla through the treehouse. It’s delightful.

Our friends being here has given us the impetus to get ourselves out and about a little more than usual. We get to introduce our favorite restaurants and hang outs. It’s also been a great excuse to jump aboard on our mate’s sail boat chasing whales. This time of year, there around 1500 Humpback whales mating, fighting and having babies. They rise close the boat and regularly breach the surface entirely. It’s a spectacular sight to see a massive female (cow) teaching a baby (calf) to leap out of the water. Jayne however has taken to steering the ship! She’s even nicked the captain’s hat. Typical.

Our community here in San Pancho is impressively creative. A friend of ours who used to be a wild punk rock guitarist has redirected his passions in later life to painting. He is now a renowned and very productive artist in the town. He has rather impressively developed the concept of painting-by-numbers murals. The latest of which is the changing rooms/toilet block on the local football field. He does his artistic magic on the building and then encourages as many people as possible to fill in the numbered areas. It’s very effective.

Our batteries arrive in Puerto Vallarta. There are four individually boxed batteries that each weigh around 35kg/75 pounds each. They have arrived at a distribution warehouse and I go to collect them. It’s a simple process with no questions asked. I check the paperwork which confirms that each massively heavy box contains import-tariff-free children’s clothes and shoes (of course).

The process of replacing our last dying nano-carbon batteries and commissioning our new, extremely expensive, high specification lithium batteries is mind twisting. Thankfully Jayne is highly motivated and excited enough to get this done. She has on hand two very helpful solar battery whisperers. A new friend she found online on a battery forum where folk with time and insane amounts of technical knowledge share their wisdom with the world. Her new solar angel, Ray, lives in Hawaii and knows his stuff. Her Dad who is famously smart when it comes to such things and Ray message Jayne highly detailed instructions. Within a number of opaque technical hours our dodgy intermittent power is replaced with a long life, reliable version. Our fridges can be turned on. I am not required to go out into the jungle in the dark resetting stuff. Brian our trusted generator is effectively put to pasture. I won’t have to fill him with fuel every few days. It’s a big win for us.

The fun fair is back in Sayulita. After a long Covid break it is now possible once again to ride on inherently dangerous fast spinning lumps of metal held together with rusty bolts, string and hope. There are blunt darts to be chucked, balloons to be popped, and balls to be directed in tiny holes. Prizes of plastic dolls’ accessories and tins of tepid beer are to be won. Folk line up to throw rocks towards lines of thick glass bottles. Should a rock actually smash a bottle rather than, more usually, bounce off dangerously, you are rewarded with a warm tin of Corona light. The price you pay for such fun is about twice the price of a tin of Corona light. Despite this slightly illogical financial transaction it is surprisingly popular. My guts are turned backwards by the thick pungent stink of hot rancid butter that is poured on everything and down everyone. The girls loved it.

Our friend who had the stroke has had a strange old time. The hospital here managed to stabilise him but could do little else. His blood starved brain affects his ability to think, speak and understand. His left side paralysed. We are lucky enough to have an extraordinary beautifully skilled doctor with extensive stroke rehab experience living close by. She visits daily and assesses what rehab is possible. Her positivity and care help enormously to keep tired and overwhelmed people optimistic and focus their minds on making things better. There is progress but painfully slow. It is a blessing that his insurance company agrees to medvac him to the USA. A team flies in from Mexico City to transfer him and his amazing partner by ambulance to his very own plane and fly him to San Francisco. He spends some difficult time in hospital under strict Covid restrictions before being transferred to a specialist facility in the bay area. He is finally in the right place getting the best care.

Our friends Emma & Rosie have birthdays close enough to be dangerous. They have decided to revive last year’s beach based Emmalypics. They create a new event. EmmaRosilympics. This to be followed by a birthday party in the jungle. This is a terrifying prospect. My arse has never quite recovered from last year’s over clenching while attempting to run on sand with a banana up it.

The day arrives and a there are a large number of participants. On a very sunny afternoon on a reasonably deserted beach to the north of San Pancho there are some rather strange sights to behold. There are relay races where teams launch themselves forward with balloons between legs or bananas clenched between buttocks. There is a welly toss. Turns are taken to throw a Wellington Boot as far as possible to establish the absolute biggest tosser on the beach. The now infamous tug of war is the highlight. We all take it far too seriously. There was a fair amount of blatant cheating which I facilitated and encouraged. When the games were played and the fruit and sand removed from our bits, the entire troupe of beach athletes then reassembled at our jungle bar. There was much rehydration till very late in celebration of wins and losses and two nutty women’s birthdays.

Thanks to the wonders of VPNs and the glorious BBC my Saturday mornings have become a great deal more exciting. I am now able to live stream The Six Nations Rugby and have supported my beloved Wales through what is turning out to be a frustrating season. Despite the lack of actual victories, it’s always emotional to watch the boys and sing the songs. My Dad and I used to contact each other after every single Welsh International. It was perhaps the time we communicated the most.

Our new Bodega has emerged from the jungle and is now ready to be filled with all the stuff we need to build our new little house, The Scorpion Temple. We have made the roof a funky shape and strong enough to build a casita on top should we ever decide to. We found a source of strange water pipes which have iguanas attached. They are installed to direct all our water ground-wards. There are concrete shelves and a workbench build in.

Our favorite feature turned into an opportunity to add some art. Jayne’s tactic to get me to be creative is crass and obvious but no less effective. When we were deciding how the stairs to the roof would look she very cleverly made a proposal which was so awful that I had to pitch in and “save the day”. Our proposed new iron staircase now has a sexy tribal scorpion design featured. After many janky sketches and refinements and weeks of iron work they now exist. We are very happy with our new Bodega.

This year has already thrown us a few googlies that have not passed us by. I am loathed to use cricket terms after the bloody Aussies stuffed England in the Ashes. I continue to avoid my less than sympathetic Antipodean mates.

Leaving our friends’ regular heath scares aside we have been told our war on Covid is at the beginning of the end leaving room in our group consciousness for an unbelievably atrocious war in Europe. We have the benefit of being way out of the direct firing line but also are left with a deepening feeling of separation. Living our best lives is an achievement but being disassociated from real world emergencies is extremely unsettling. It’s hard to relax when bombs are falling on innocents and millions of families are being displaced.

It is true that genocides, war and man-made famines are a constant in our world. Post 9/11 wars have directly caused close to a million deaths. The largest sub-section being civilians. Somehow, we have managed to push our outrage aside and get on with our lives while this has all been happening. One notable difference with the Ukraine war is that the potential to affect every one of us is so very real. Not just paying more for fuel. The doomsday clock, which is a concept designed to warns the public about how close we are to destroying our world with dangerous technologies of our own, is currently set to 100 seconds before midnight.

What is encouraging is the amount of kindness this situation is bringing out in people. Polish, Hungarian and German families amongst many others taking in entire refugee families into their homes indefinitely. Humanitarian volunteers helping as best they can. Jayne and I spent an amount of time in the refugee “jungle” camp in Calais. It was home to over 1300 migrants, mainly from from Eritrea, Somalia and Syria. In 2015, during the peak of the so-called European migrant crisis, the numbers began to grow. Migrants arrived from Afghanistan, Darfur, Iraq and other conflict zones. it was destroyed by the French authorities in 2016. We helped build and repair shelters and create a youth centre amongst the chaos. The people we met and their stories they told us will remain with me forever. We are not sure how you measure how much difference we made but we were there. Doing our best. Making things just a bit better for as many people as we could. The draw to fly out to the region, engage more and do something more useful is very strong.

Our extraordinary mate in California is making progress enough that he is released from his rehab facility to his house in Pacifica on the Pacific Ocean coast near San Francisco. We are blessed with a vast tribe of caring and useful people who have made themselves available to help. A bunch of handy buggers have transformed his multilevel house by installing ramps for his return. His much beloved adventure dog, Logan, has, however, remained in Mexico since his stroke. Another good friend of ours has been looking after her and his house here. This is very useful but Logan is much missed and can’t be on her Mexican sabbatical alone for ever. She is a big old dog. A French Pyrenees that looks to the untrained eye like a couple of sheep bonded to a mid-size hedge. A plan is hatched for a couple of very kind, slightly bonkers friends from the bay area to fly down and drive his car and his massive dog North.

The crew arrive on Sunday afternoon and plan to load up dog and luggage into their car and set off the very next morning. It’s a long drive. Joe (the builder now actor) and Yvette (dog whisperer) arrive with us and are taken to eat well, imbibe just enough tequila and watch a turtle release on the beach before they leave. Eventually, after what has been a quite incredible journey for both of them, John and Logan are reunited. There is not a dry eye in the house.

Jungle Journal

Another Year

January 23, 2022January 23, 2022
by Beave

December is a special time in our wee part of the tropics. The humidity takes a few days off now and again, welcome fresh air is deliciously breathable and there are moments when I’m not soaked in my own juices. It’s Goldilocks weather. Not too hot, not too cold.

It’s absolutely the time of year when we feel the pressure to start growing stuff. The jungle has had its months of taking over and is retreating as the wet season turns to dry. We decide to treat ourselves to a xmas present. We persuade our local boys to again collect piles of river rocks and transform them into three large raised planting areas right outside the treehouse. The plan is to keep a much closer eye on what we grow and install an automatic irrigation system to keep stuff alive and healthy. The planters look fabulous and are filled with good earth and irrigation pipes ready to install. It’s a process but we are getting there slowly.

After one of our regular and very necessary organise days in our stuffed bodega we find a load of seeds. Our Argentinian garden ninja has also left us various bags of newer, fresher seeds. We have separated them into flowers, fruits, herbs and vegetables and started the process of germination in a large seeding box, a couple of our existing flower beds and a dozen or so plastic flower pots. Good soil and lots of watering (when we remember) and there are some signs of life. It’s an exercise in patience and faith.

Jayne has recently become intrigued by the cultivation of mushrooms. A friend of ours has been propagating for over a year and developed all the skills and collected all the stuff to make it happen. After much boiling water and sterilising of straw and wood chips we now have mycelium all over the place. Up trees, in trees, in buckets, on the jungle floor and even in our new Xmas planters. In a few weeks, we are expecting flourishes of blue oyster mushrooms. Theoretically.

On the other end of our highly limited production our vanilla beans are starting to turn yellowish. It’s been around 9 months since we were up ladders pushing pollen in all the right places and this year’s crop is impressive. At a loose count, there are around 60 big fat beans on the vine. We know it will take some time to nurture them to dark oozy vanillaness but it will be worth it.

Xmas comes at us fast. We have never exchanged presents but do sometimes make the effort to write a terrible song or slightly offensive limerick or a dodgy looking card but not this year. 2021 seems to have crept by and again we have been thankfully saved the endless exposure of Xmas trees, snowmen, Wham songs and adverts to spend heaps on seasonal crap. We have entirely missed being caught up by the Xmas spirit.

We have friends staying with us for a few days so Xmas Eve was more of an event than usual so Xmas morning was treacly slow. As is now tradition we have arranged to open our place up from 2pm till very late to the great and good of San Pancho as well as a few of the more dodgy and unwashed. Our Xmas morning is, therefore, a sanctuary time for us to gather ourselves to what will come and eat the best of what we have before having to share. This year our contribution is slow cooked lamb so if no one else turns up it will suit me just fine.

As I’m slowly imbibing buckets of tea and mustering my battered enthusiasm Jayne is clearly up to no good. There is something she is not telling me. The silence is deafening. After a few too many moments of anticipation I am invited outside. In front of me is one of the finest sights I can remember. My bath which was lugged across the jungle and installed outside the treehouse is now full of hot water and very importantly overflowing with bubbles. There is a cold bottle of Chardy on a table within reach. The next hour is spent in bliss and gratitude. Perfect Xmas present.

Unfortunately, my lamb, along with deep fried turkey, fresh BBQ fish and many dozens of other dishes are demolished by around ninety guests who spend a rather excellent Xmas day in the jungle. We are lucky to have such an amazingly close and supportive (if ravenous) community here. The festivities go on just late enough.

We take advantage of the strange gap between Xmas and New Year to arrange the start of our new build projects. It has become clear that building material prices are going to go up massively in the next few weeks so we buy strategic amounts of steel & cement in advance and push forward getting our new bodega built so we have somewhere to keep it all.

We buy a tinaco to store water for the build. It arrives on a truck that has no chance of getting to our land so I take the Ranger and strap it to the back in the middle of one of the rivers. Once I get to roughly where it needs to be we work out how far up the hill we can site it. It fills from our primary tinacos which are far away and not much higher. The whole area is recently cleaned jungle and is full of ticks. The wood tick is not a lime disease candidate but is not a lot of fun. They jump on you and head to your neck in search of warm blood and soft skin. They are usually fairly easy to remove once you find them but often leave holes that take a while to heal. It takes three of us to get it all done. By the time the pipes have been laid out and the hillside dug out we are all covered in the little bastards. I look like a dartboard for the following weeks.

Designing a building from scratch takes some concentration. We have architect/project management support which helps a lot. Our plan is to create a 6m x 4m storage space where we can have a real concrete floor for the first time. This will help with getting under vehicles and generally keeping the place less filthy. We will keep the option of building a casita on top should we need to later. For now we intend to create a large deck on top accessible by a bespoke design iron work staircase. Sketches of electrics, water, doors and retaining walls fly back and forth.

A big issue is the trees. It’s a constant issue for us. We have one of the highest concentrations of Capomo trees in the world. They are extraordinary knarly and beautiful trees that rain nuts that can be made into a coffee type drink that is highly sought after in expensive hippy organic emporiums. The downside is they get invaded by Bromeliads which are gorgeous but heavy. The branches of the Copomo fail often and fall over a hundred feet to the ground. Because of that they are often called widow makers. One hit our Razor and we were only saved from being squashed flat by the highly substantial roll bar. Copomo surround our new build site so we need to find a way of making it safer.

Our cute little Mexican town is home to all sorts of mad buggers. The maddest are the lads that climb the trees to take down coconuts and dangerous branches. They risk everything by shimmying up 150 foot trees with a chainsaw, no safety ropes and apparently no fear. All for the price of a bottle or two of tequila. We persuade these boys to spend a few days up our trees and remove all the branches that could potentially kill us the quickest. We agree to pay them well and for four days there are a mix of fresh noises. Many arguments, chainsaws, crashing branches and lots of swearing. The result was that no one died, all the branches that we were worried about safely on the ground. There is now a lovely patch of clear sky now surrounding our build site. The only casualty was my brand new 7.5M ladder. It is now a more reasonable 5M. It could have been a lot worse.

Our absolutely insane tree cropping crew

There is good news. We are sent a photo of our new expensive heavy solar batteries. After researching a load of traditional methods of shipping 150kg of batteries from the US through the web of confusion and corruption which is the Mexican border, we settled on a less conventional solution. Without going into too much detail we have shipped the batteries from the supplier to a unit in Texas and a number of days later they are somewhere North of us but South of USA. We should get them soon and our power issues will be solved. Theoretically.

A very grumpy and impressive Boa who took residence with us for a while.

New Year comes and there are a number of options to celebrate. San Pancho has a famous street party that is, for the first time in two years, not COVID cancelled. As an alternative, our friends have suggested a beach party which will be less crowded offering a few DJs and a big fire. Both sound good. I donate a generator to the beach party and prepare to meet up with everyone. One of our good friends has just returned from Guadalajara after a brain surgery to solve an aneurysm that was diagnosed just before Xmas. It will be good catch up with him.

My plans are thwarted by man flu. I am without energy, shivering cold and sweating like a horse on speed. There is not a chance that I can communicate effectively with anyone and it is very likely that I am highly contagious. My New Year is destined to be in my bed. I spend four days horizontal for perhaps the first time ever. It’s bloody awful but I have three negative COVID tests so get no sympathy.

Massive moth caterpillar that makes a disturbing clicking noise when disturbed.

Jayne is a good nurse and leaves me in bed to take up the mantle of our social diary. She ends up after dinner at the beach party for the night. It’s an unexpected hit and hundreds turn up. That did include the police who were very supportive and wished everyone a good night and some local business people checking that no one was making money from the event. My friend who was recovering from his brain operation added a touch of drama. He suddenly developed a significant bleed from his groin wound and was very lucky to make it to hospital in time thanks to fast thinking and faster action from those around him. It was a sobering start to the year. It could have been a lot worse.

It takes some days for me to recover and start my New Year by watching our bodega rise up. Concrete mixed and carried in large quantities. My strength slowly returns to find that almost everyone we know now has COVID for at least the first time. This does not seems to be unique to us. We know of people all over the world reporting the same. It makes for a quiet start to the year. Thankfully the vast majority of folk have a lot milder symptoms than my near fatal man flu. They do, however, evoke all the sympathy.

We lose a number of our workers and foreman to COVID who are instantly replaced by others so the bodega continues to take shape. It will be completed in a few weeks so we start to collect things we might need for the main build. After a few false starts we manage to rescue a few funky wooden windows from nearby Sayulita that we plan to incorporate. We also manage to ship an actual sofa (our first in Mexico), a bench and table from a friend’s house in San Miguel de Allende. It was a journey of 700 km and we had to unload onto a pick-up truck at a petrol station 25km away with 40 minutes notice but somehow it all worked out and arrived perfectly. Our new oven and fridge for the new place are due to be delivered soon. At this rate, our new Bodega will be full in no time.

Then something bloody terrible happens. We get a call early in the morning. Our very close friend who we have had many great adventures with has had a stroke. I was drinking with him watching his beloved 49ers win in overtime just hours before. Thankfully he had enough help quick enough to get him to a good hospital 30 km away. We head there immediately. It’s not good news and the artery feeding the right side of his neck is almost fully blocked and his brain needs blood urgently. Emergency surgery is very quickly arranged. We wait for 7 hours until we finally get the message that he is still alive. During that time, we are invited to have meetings with the surgeons during the operation (to agree what happens next) where we see live real-time scans of his brain and the blood flow within. It was remarkable.

After 5 days of induced coma to allow his brain swelling to reduce he is now conscious again. He is now starting a long road of rehabilitation. With a lot of work and some luck we are expecting his physical and brain function issues to repair but seeing our close mate damaged and vulnerable is hard to take. It’s been an extraordinarily emotional time for everyone. Our lives have been so touched by his.

It’s been a proper thumping wake up to understand how complaisant I have been with my own health for a lot of years. It’s made me take long over-due extra precautions to reduce my own risk of vascular brain issues. The impact is just so fucking awful.

Jungle Journal

Newest Normal

December 3, 2021
by Beave

Six weeks in the jungle by myself has been both challenging and deeply relaxing. The unspeakable heat and humidity some days left me with no option but to hydrate and stay still. There may be a lengthening list of tasks building up but also an inescapable need to move slowly, be patient and appreciate stillness. If I move too fast or get overambitious my body objects with fatigue and my mind opts out altogether. Humidity and heat makes me stupid. Really stupid. Best to choose strategic prevarication. Enjoy the peace. Look out for whales and watch the jungle grow.

Without my nominated driver, it is less tempting to spend my days at beach bars watching the waves. Huge amount of rain has very efficiently flushed out the rivers and lagoons into the sea. This is not good for water quality. It is wise to avoid ear and eye infections by delaying sea swimming for the few weeks it will take for all the effluent to disperse. Further encouragement to plan little and do less.

One project we have managed to get going is making us irritatingly and unashamedly smug. An unwanted result of managing our hydration is that we produce a ton of plastic waste. We go through a lot of fizzy water which we keep cold and always accessible. Buying just a few extra rehydration drinks from the Oxxo in unnecessarily thick containers and I’m taking a heavy bin bag full of plastic bottles every week to recycle. We have been contemplating getting a fizzy water maker but the small CO2 gas bottles they consume are expensive to refill and not a thing here. A friend introduced us to a hack where a large commercial gas tank (commonly used in bars) is attached to the machine. After a lot of buggering about we finally get everything to work. We now have endless free fizzy water and are saving ourselves bag loads of recycling. Smug.

There is an island reasonably close to us that attracts large number of tourist boats for the entire season. It has steep cliffs, flocks of sea birds, and a mix of vultures and black eagles floating high above on the thermals. The real attraction is that there are countless varieties of fish living in the rocks that surrounds the whole island. A mate has a birthday which is excuse enough to hire a boat and head out for a rare morning of doing things.

We are dropped off in a well-maintained cove where there is shade, tables and a large expanse of coral roped off to create a safe snorkeling area. It’s early morning and completely off season so we are thankfully by ourselves.

We grab equipment and start to explore. My own sexy full-face diving mask proves highly unreliable. It’s not designed for a proper face like mine and leaks constantly. I borrow a spare, well used, set of mask and snorkel and join the others. I don’t have flippers but the current seems to push me wherever I need to go and the warm clear water is seductive. There are very many very stunning fish. We remain in the rocks under the cliffs and are soon a long way from the roped off cove. We gauge that we are probably nearly half way around maybe. It is decided to keep going and circumnavigate the island.

This is not a terrible decision but without flippers and now having to deal with less helpful currents it takes me a lot longer than expected. When we all finally meet up at the boat again it’s been around two hours of swimming. It’s a great spot. I swam with an extraordinary number of freaky decorative fish. When resting on a shallow rock to clear my mask I was joined by a huge hunk of old turtle with a knarly beat up crusty shell. She was a big girl and sat next to me for a moment before vanishing with a single stroke from her flippers. That was a good moment.

There are a few fermented local brews that are becoming trendy. Pulque is the ancient Mexican product of fermented agave sap. It’s a thin and milky looking and tastes a lot like a 6% alcohol fermented agave sap. It’s an acquired taste but lots of folk here drink many consecutive pints. There is a bar in town dedicated to the stuff.

Tepache is a fizzy drink with a smaller amount of alcohol. It’s made by fermenting pineapple. A new series of factory units have appeared on the edge of San Pancho where it’s produced and distributed. They used to be an ugly couple of sheds. The owners have renovated and painted them. One side of the biggest shed has a spectacular funky mural that one single bloke did in three days. It has made the whole area look heaps more attractive.

Halloween is celebrated well at our Mezcaleria. Costumes and Mezcal are a great combination. Day of the Dead is a more traditional affair this year. Cemeteries are full of families again. Graves are decorated beautifully with traditional bright orange marigold flowers, stunning sand paintings and countless candles. In the town square in Lo De Marcos there is live music, elaborate alters with hundreds of photos and a spooky parade of girls made up as Catrina.

October has passed us by. A more normal life style is returning, air is breathable and it’s possible to put on a pair of pants without having to rest for a while in a sweaty mess afterwards. Fireflies have gone, replaced by countless butterflies. The thick luscious jungle is alive with flowers, lizards, hornets, spiders, ticks and snakes. It’s beautifully humbling. And Jayne is home.

After six weeks of Tim Hortons she has returned to the land without snow or Timbits. No rains, fences mended and no bodies to bury. She’s a lucky girl. She has restored our stocks of sheets and towels but, far more importantly, chocolate, paxo and tea. I was approaching panic when I realised I was down to my last months’ supply of Yorkshire Gold. Peace of mind is restored.

In the past few weeks we have again brought in the big machines to move river earth onto the rock beds that used to be our access roads. It’s another temporary fix but with further good fortune we will not see the big rains here for 9 months. Many days of machete work have revealed areas not seen for many months. Over grown beds have been rescued and the rich potent earth is more than ready for us to start planting. The energy here has changed from survival to anticipation.

Our architect and project manager has returned to San Pancho after a surf trip in Baja. We meet for brunch and agree that it is the time to start renovating our new jungle place. The Scorpion Temple. The plan is to have windows. Windows that hold in cool air. We have found some eye wateringly expensive solar batteries to replace the ones we have. It became obvious to us soon after our last investment that the heat of the tropics is not the ideal home for batteries. Even the latest technology, sexily named, Nano-Carbon batteries that we were promised were worth the huge amount of cash. Four have completely failed and the remaining four are just about staying alive. We are researching hard but it appears that four of these new new technology beasts will allow us to run everything we need, including, an air conditioner for our new build. That will be life changing. Small issue still exists of getting them down here from up North. They are a huge wad cheaper in the States but worryingly each of the little buggers’ weigh around 35kg. We need four of them. Not the easiest thing to ship.

A new red Polaris Ranger 500 joins our fleet of jungle transport.

So, after a splendid breakfast, we decide to press the button on the new build. The contractors begin this week clearing the land and preparing to start building in the New Year. There is much to do and lots to buy. Mexico has a few days set aside in November where just about everything is heavily discounted. El Buen Fin (short for “El Buen Fin de Semana,” meaning “The Good Weekend”) is an annual nationwide shopping event. It occurs the weekend before Mexican Revolution Day. It’s like an extended Black Friday. There is a real opportunity to save some serious money so it is decided that we will brave the sales and go to the big city and buy stuff.

My infinite patience is tested. My love of hanging around overcrowded sweaty department stores being ignored by the indifferent staff is being tested. There are piles of stuff discounted by 40% but curiously much of it seems to have been marked up about 40% in anticipation. Despite losing the will to live many times, we have oven, fridge, sewing machine, sink and taps and theoretically saved just enough to make this glorious day worthwhile. The best news is they will store the stuff for us till at least February.

We are ready to go. It is agreed to pay for all the building materials in advance to fix the prices which are changing daily. There is so much construction around here that all materials are at a premium and even subject to theft if not stored well. Prices are expected to jump up by as much as 20% in the New Year. We have surveyed a new access road and will install a new secure Bodega in the bush behind the main structure. We can use it for the build and afterwards. If we are lucky we will find a rumoured natural water source nearby that we can tap into. A generator set up will supply volts and amps until our new batteries arrive and we can run cables to carry all our new extra sun power. Now it’s just a question of waiting for the back hoe to arrive. It might be sometime.

The big RVs are arriving again. It’s been a couple of years since we saw them last but now the borders have reopened they are pouring down from Canada and all over the USA. Both Thanksgiving Days have happened which is the trigger for the snowbirds to be released. The RV parks will be full now till Easter.

A now traditional gathering of waifs and strays for US Thanksgiving . Hosting credit: Sheri & Josh

The airport is mad. This time last year it was empty. There are now around a hundred flights landing every day. It takes hours to navigate immigration and then custom lines and avoid the time share sales people chasing you around with threats of “free” tequila. It takes so much longer to get anywhere. The city moves slowly, stuffed with people and vehicles.

The road from Guadalajara is nose-to-tail traffic every weekend. The Mexican need for beach is too overwhelming when you live in a big city that’s recovering from army enforced lockdowns. Droves of long weekenders are searching for any beach chairs, hotel rooms and restaurants reservations that the incoming fly-in tourists haven’t already filled. This is great for local business for sure but it’s November. The season hasn’t officially started yet and we are packed. Nothing makes us more grateful for our jungle retreat with shitty access roads. It’s a different world out here. Thankfully.

Jungle Journal

More Heat, Most Humidity & all the Water

October 16, 2021October 16, 2021
by Beave

Jayne has finally reached the age of forty. It seems to have taken her a long time to get here. There is need to celebrate. This may be more difficult than we expect. Many of our friends have escaped the sticky air and are elsewhere in the world. Many of our more regular haunts are closed down till the rains stop. It’s a bit risky to arrange anything at an outdoor venue as it’s still raining just about every day. The sun drops over the ocean and the sky sucks in the clouds and the rain and thunder play off each other all night.

Thankfully this is not a problem unique to us. For some reason, I don’t fully understand my life is awash with Virgoans. Astrology is not necessarily my thing but I know without doubt that those born between August 23rd and September 22^nd follow me around. A number of them have got together and a joint celebration of getting older is arranged initially on the deck of a beach bar our friends are building but is yet to be completed. We invite folk to join us the weekend before her birthday and bring gin. Our local Mezcaleria is one of the only remaining bars open and agrees to host the after party and hire our favorite local DJ. Should be fun, weather permitting.

It has taken some weeks but the hurricane damage has been sorted enough to get the sub up the road to the treehouse. We have to take it ridiculously slowly and carefully. This is a huge success as walking from town with fuel and water is a ridiculous chore. The big tree that blocked our way has been cut up and dispatched into the jungle. There is enough earth clinging to the rocks to make the roads passable. Just. The many fallen branches are macheted into fire wood. We struggle through the deep layers of crunchingly painful dried spike vines that cover the jungle floor. The hurricane literally blew them out of the trees.

Jayne has booked her flight North and if all goes to plan will spend the entire hot sweaty month of October catching up with family in cold fresh Canada. She has faith that somehow, she can be double vaccinated in time. If not she will have to rebook her flights to a later date.

The luck dragons appear to be on our side and we get news that second vaccines are to be available in another gymnasium in the city. When we get there, we are advised that it is impossible to get a second dose unless we are over 40, had the first vaccination at that location at least a month previously. Jayne is under 40, has never been to this particular gymnasium and was initially vaccinated only a few weeks before. Somehow, maybe due to my stunning good looks and blinding charm we are invited in and are fast tracked to the front of the queue. It’s most likely due to Jaynes command of Spanish, a few tall tales and the undeniable, if sometimes embarrassing, privilege that being a white gringo still holds. She and her family are delighted. I get to look forward to a month in the jungle solo. It’s been a while.

The lightening has become quite dramatic. Flashes light up the jungle like daylight. The big Copomo trees around us have avoided getting direct hits but attract the bolts to land very close to our treehouse. Often the thunder is instant, deafening and travels straight through the timbers. It focuses the mind when suspended four meters above the ground. It is lightening like this that scared off all our bees a couple of years ago. I decide to check next time I’m passing.

Its that time when the golden orb spiders present themselves. If you don’t keep your eyes open you can be clothes lined across the face or neck by a strong wire like thread. Hanging to the end of this thread is a spider that is way too large and irritable that is thrust into your face. It’s not recommended.

If you look closely you can see the tiny male that follows his massive girlfriend around until she’s hungry enough to eat him.

I’m on my way carefully to the Bodega with a handful of tools carrying my machete when I see a shaft of sunlight hit our hives and make my way down through the overgrowth to check things out. The jungle has taken over so I have to cut my way in and spend some-time tidying the area, clearing vines and hacking down rapidly growing palms. At my last visit, there were thousands of bees clinging to the outside of the hives avoiding the suffocating heat inside. It’s a bit of a worry that right now, despite all my commotion, I can see no bees at all. The first hive I check by tapping my machete on the side. No response. I remove the security rocks from the lid and lift the upper section. The hive is entirely empty. Bugger.

I am disappointed we have lost a hive. It distracts me from my overconfidence playing with bee houses without any protection at all. Still no signs of life so a little too eagerly I remove the top section of the next hive. What happens next appeared to be in slow motion. From complete silence, I hear the roar of countless pissed off bees being disturbed non-consensually. The hive protecting warrior bees immediately and very efficiently set about discouraging me . I get some very painful stings but take the time to replace the lid before running away as fast as I could. To better piss them off I’m wearing a black T shirt and black socks. I’m quickly hundreds of yards away pointlessly flailing my machete and swearing loudly. They are not letting me off. My chest head, back and ankles are properly attacked. I’m fully at the other side of the land before I rid myself of the last of the tenacious little gits. I’m an idiot who has confirmed beyond doubt that we still have at least one active hive. Good for them.

It’s some days before the aching stings fade and I can concentrate on the important task of creating a pop up gin bar on the beach. It didn’t take long and for the first time in a week the rains held off. We had food delivered and someone made a cake that had a life expectancy of about 15 minutes in the heat. It was somehow devoured before it melted. We had about fifty people turn up which was just about everyone we know at this time of year. At sunset we cleaned up and moved the party successfully to the Mescaleria bar where there was much dancing till very late. We ended up in a friend’s pool and still the rains held off. Jayne was very happy with the start of her birthday week.

After a very slow late breakfast we limped home the following afternoon with more gin that we started with . The day was spent in low pace recovery watching the rains come down hard. We timed our party perfectly as the rains didn’t really stop after that.

Its Thursday 16^th September which is Mexican Independence Day. This is the day of Jaynes birth so we decide to mark the occasion with a trip to the big city, a hotel with a bath and a table at a great restaurant. It’s been a while since we got away. It’s raining but the roads and rivers are still passable. Just.

The journey to the city is slow. The rains are getting stronger. We arrive at our hotel to find the entire street is under more than a foot of fast flowing water. We park opposite the hotel and wade across. Its chucking it down. Our planned walk along the seafront is canceled. An hour later we are in a taxi which makes it to our posh restaurant despite the rain coming down even harder. Drainpipes are pouring wide streams of water like waterfalls from every roof onto the roads. We watch the lightening and the constant rain rapidly deepening the flooded street from our window table.

It’s a memorable meal. We are spoilt and grateful as we again realise that walking anywhere is just not possible. We taxi back to the hotel to sit out the storm, over stuffed and suitably refreshed. Jayne has forty short video messages from friends and family all over the world which my mates schooled me in compiling for her. She watches them on the laptop from her bath as lightning flashes fill the room through the window. Nice and dramatic

The morning is deceptively calm. Blue skies and an unnecessary but delicious breakfast. We arrange a late check out. Jayne disappears into the city to get a massage and pampering. I abuse the bath as long as I am able before checking out and setting off to meet her. The blue of the sky has been replaced by dark bruised clouds pouring down the surrounding mountains towards us. I find an old man’s bar directly opposite the salon where she has been reclining while for some hours now as a team of patient girls in white coats have dedicatedly buffed and polished her. She meets me in the bar with all her new gleaming bits. It starts to rain. Proper rain.

Having seen a whole heap of rain for many weeks now it takes something special to impress us. This is indeed special. In no time at all the roads double up as fully functioning rivers. The chances of us getting home are looking very slim. We have a few drinks with the old men who tell us tales of old Puerto Vallarta forty years ago when Jayne was born. It becomes obvious we are not going anywhere, anytime soon, so we recheck into the hotel and head out for another over indulgent feed. The very impressive rains keep coming. I have been in monsoon rains in India, Africa and South-East Asia. These rains match those in their intensity but have the added trick of not stopping. It is official that the road North is closed and that the river in San Pancho has burst its banks. The water level has gone from about 6 inches to over 6 meters (20 feet) in an hour. The water is up to the bridges. Large areas have been washed away. Local old boys tell us it’s more rain than has been seen here for 30 years.

https://vimeo.com/manage/videos/633821562

San Pancho river in full flood

The following morning is again calm. We attempt to eat breakfast but fail. We have both eaten more food in the past few days than we have for a month. The only road North is now clear of landslides and mud again, so after a compulsory last bath we stock up on cake, cigars and pies and make the journey home.

We arrive in San Pancho early Saturday afternoon. The river levels have dropped considerably from the night before but we notice straight away the speed and volume of the water. We take a different route off the highway as our usual exit immediately appears damaged. We reach the river and can see that things have changed. The whole river is much wider as the banks have been flattened. The bushes and hedgerows and small trees that lined the river are gone. The usual road from the highway is entirely destroyed. Replaced with deep pits and pointy rocks. The first river is fast flowing and on both sides are steep drops making it impossible to cross even if you could get to it.

We somehow avoid the dips and crevices in front of us and using our most aggressive 4×4 driving get to the second river crossing. A tree and downed power lines block the road so access is only on foot from here. We leave the car and attempt to cross. Pretty much as soon as we take a few strides the water is above our knees and strongly trying to push us under. We abandon that idea and try to circumvent this and the next crossing by hiking through a local neighbourhood which a local lady showed us the last time we tried this. We head in that direction and find more downed power lines and a cement electrical pole fully across the road. We climb over the pole and are met with a cliff like drop off to the river. The road is gone. Not washed out or damaged or replaced with holes and rocks. It’s gone. A road that has been there for decades and only a month previously had dump trucks up and down it all day is no more. The river burst its banks and took it away.

We head for town and persuade friends to take us into their air conditioned world. It’s days before we can contemplate getting home. Even by foot. We are resigned to the fact that all our repair work will be undone. The worry is what else we will find. If one of the big Copomos has fallen next to the treehouse it could be devastating. We are effectively refugees until the rivers calm down enough to give getting home another go.

Jayne is still in town borrowing an office and Wi-Fi . As she works I take on the mission to get home. By navigating downed power lines and finding new safer ways to cross the rivers I eventually get to the road leading to our place. It’s buggered. There are sections of road which are no more. Most of the rest is crater filled with massive rocks at all angles. It’s hard enough to hike over. No chance of driving anything. I get to our gate and things look surprisingly well. The rocks are piled high so access is impossible. Looking up the river to the road up to the treehouse is a worry. The corner of our land has been washed out taking down five of our biggest palm trees. They are all well over a hundred-foot-high and their root stacks are vast. There is a huge tangle of fence posts, palm trees, root stacks and barbed wire making it impossible to pass.

I make my way across the land. The crunching of the dry spike vines underfoot is loud, large broken limbs hang precariously from the trees or stick out of the jungle floor awkwardly where they fell. I’m passing the place where I am avoiding the bees and hear an unusual flow of water. Somehow a small stream is now crossing my path heading down the hill. I am a long way from the water pipes so it’s no leak. The river is behind me and a good few meters lower than where I am. The well which I checked on the way over is many meters below me and the water table a few meters down. Where is this water coming from? A separate water source has appeared that is coming out of the ground above our treehouse which we know to be 80 M above sea-level. It’s a strong flow of water cutting a new channel. It’s all rather odd.

It’s a relief to see our treehouse has not moved or been damaged. Every building we have still has a roof and we have no trees down on the land. We are lucky. The road, however, remains impassable for the next ten days. All the machines we need are fully employed rescuing folk with bigger problems than ours. Eventually we get a machine to work a solid 8 hours to give us access. The fallen trees are shifted around and the river access restored. Large amounts of dirt are poured on top of the rock beds to fashion a road of sorts. It is now possible to deliver water, food and fuel to the land without exhausting ourselves. It’s been a pretty tough time but others had it much worse. The river took a lot of land and property that will never be seen again.