Jungle Journal Archives - Page 3 of 8

A beautiful lotus growing in our pool

Currently more of a pond…

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.

This is the fourth October I have spent here. October is brutally beautiful. The jungle is every colour of green, the vines overtake everything as you watch, fire flies light up the night . The rains have all but stopped for a while but are now replaced with thick warm cloaks of humidity. The air we breathe delivers thick soupy warmth in our lungs which is no comfort. It takes but a few steps to induce profuse dripping sweats. Clothes stick to skin annoyingly so are discarded. Good job I’m so isolated. Lying motionless on dampening towels in front of a fan is the only rest bite. It’s exhausting.

So October is here. Jayne is not. She’s breathing in fresh dry Vancouver air and cooking pies for Canadian Thanksgiving. Our Thanksgiving was cancelled as our Canadian hosts are without power and water because someone decided to dig them up. Pinche Mexico Te Amo. It’s now possible to get to town but the motivation to do anything at all in this heat is sadly lacking. It’s going to be a slow month but with great luck we won’t get smashed by weather again. There is a heap of post rain maintenance to do. The entire jungle needs some taming. Our water pump needs replacing. Vehicles need repair. Large sections of our fences need rebuilding. Little by little it will all get done. In its own time and space. Eventually. No pressure.

Jungle Journal

Nature, Idiots and Bloody Nora.

September 1, 2021September 1, 2021
by Beave

Summer in the tropics. The colours are vivid, the sun is hot, the sea is warm and the beers are cold. Fruit is falling from the trees attracting clouds of butterflies that surround us as we walk. The fast-growing jungle is alive with fast-moving lizards and slow-moving snakes. The birds are loud, the bugs are louder and the frogs are loudest. The cats sleep 23 hours a day. Living with this amount of nature is extraordinary but ultimately humbling. It’s been a mad month.

Again, the rains come and kick our arse. With absolutely no notice, we are treated to a solid 12 hours of hard rain. There was little wind to interfere with the falling water so we got the full benefit. We are stuck for a number of good reasons. The river that has settled in front of our gate meanders towards where the road to our treehouse begins. The strength of the water carves the place where the road and river meet into a small impassable cliff.

By wading through the water, we discover that a new flood path has temporarily formed overnight. The river to our North overflowed and re-purposed our roads as temporary water ways in order to entirely destroy the road heading to the jungle above us and remove all the earth from the road that we use to get to town. It’s a mass of deep holes and large rocks positioned in such a way as to take the undercarriage off anything that attempts to traverse it. We hear the town is flooded so we stay put,

We manage to get a large machine in to help rescue us. Within 24 hours we have invested seven hours of machine time and repaired our roads and moved many tones of earth and rock to divert the river so it can’t bugger up our access. We are impressed by our efforts and look forward to many easier days gliding down our new roads beside our much better behaved river. We are idiots.

Jake makes it back to the UK and is immediately tested positive for Covid. It is very likely he caught it here and it didn’t have time to show up on his pre-flight test. He is symptom free which is good news but entirely frustrating. He quarantines in a small room at his mate’s place In Darlington. He is very lucky in many ways. If he had tested positive before he left here and had to stay for a further few weeks he would have been stuck here. Mexico for the first time has been declared a red zone country by the UK. If we want to visit family we will now have to pay £2250 quid each for the joy of staying in a government prison/hotel for 11 days. This has effectively ended all travel to Mexico from UK. It also meant that with just a few days’ notice many thousands of panicked visitors from the UK have to get back before the deadline. Our friend spent many stressful hours trying to re-book flights or be stuck here indefinitely. It was chaos.

Again, the rains come and kick our arse. With absolutely no notice we listen to the downfall noisily try and pierce our roof. It’s impossible to listen to music or podcasts or movies because the rain is so loud. Lightening hits within feet of the treehouse and the subsequent thunder shakes our bones. We appear from a long sleepless night to find everything we did undone. Not only is the river back to where it likes to be but its toying with us. The massive rocks we moved to protect our road are gone. A new steeper and wider cliff has replaced them. As suspected all our lovely roads have vanished, replaced with larger rocks and deeper holes. We are very stuck.

There are rumors that we will be hit by a hurricane in the next week or so but it’s really hard to tell if this will actually happen. Hurricanes are forever coming up our coast but mostly make landfall in Baja or much further South. The cool air coming off our jungle discourages them getting too close and tends to protect us. This area hasn’t been smashed by a hurricane since 2012. We make the decision to repair our way to freedom one more time. We are idiots.

For the first time this year the town and beach are getting noticeably quieter. Finally.

In previous years the volumes of bodies on our beloved pristine sands reflected clear seasons. After Thanksgiving in Canada and USA there was an exodus of RVs and snow birds packing our shores to “winter” in Mexico. This marked the beginning of our traditional high season. Most of these folks are retirees avoiding the cold weather and needy grown up kids. This had the effect of raising the average age considerably. They stay warm and well fed for the length of their 6-month visa and head back North at Semana Santa to be replaced by hordes of low budget Mexican tourists making camp on the beach for two weeks. After Easter, there was notably less folk and everything slowed down. Shops and restaurants closed. We had a full 6 months before it got nuts again.

But, as we know, the world as we know it has changed. Last year the Canadian-USA border closed holding back the swell of RVs trying to escape the winter. A mass of well-aged Covid vulnerable travelers decide to stay put and spend time with grandchildren rather than bake on a beach getting fatter. RV parks that have had full occupancy for years with long waiting lists for spots are now completely empty. Bars and restaurants which had evolved to service Canadians and Americans of a certain age are empty. Semana Santa was effectively cancelled so all our season markers vanished.

The most surprising and unforeseen result of our new world order is that huge amounts of middle class Mexican tourists have descended on us throughout the year. Guadalajara and Mexico City have a large population of fairly well-off families that have been hard hit by Covid and restrictions have been brutal. Lockdown means lockdown. Soldiers on the streets. Life stopped. The traditional holiday around Semana Santa may have been shut down again this year but it just spread things out. Towns such as Sayulita that are used to mass tourism have been packed out into August. Our beaches have been filled with large loud Mexican families camped under umbrellas surrounded by coolers of Corona light. They have been joined by a fleet of shiny new cars carrying new luggage and well-dressed families that are filling all the rentals and hotel rooms. They eat at restaurants and buy stuff from shops. Like proper tourists. It does mean that we have a lot more imported Covid cases but it has helped the local economy survive and in many cases, thrive.

September is somehow here already, the schools are back up and running and the rains, heat and humidity is getting challenging so, thankfully, our little town is pretty much ours again. There is a solid group of lunatics who stay here all year around. We spend time together dealing with all the stuff that nature and life throws at us. A group of hardy souls agree to take a hike across swollen rivers to find deep swimming holes surrounded by high rocks to dive from. It’s good to get away, even locally.

We have been here for four years now. It’s hard to get into our heads that it was four years ago we naïvely turned up at Manchester airport with eleven bags and a surf board. We remember very clearly the hours and days of torment we have suffered getting our immigration stuff sorted. We have been official temporary residents here for a full four years which is the most we are allowed. It’s time to revisit the immigration office again and see what fresh hell they can inflict upon us before granting us permanent residency.

We make the journey over our re-repaired roads to the big city to see what awaits us. It’s a Friday and the office is open until 3 pm so we confidently arrive at 10.45 prepared to sit in silence for many hours while being stared at by security guards that shout at you if you get your phone out or look anything other than bored and miserable. Nothing so predictable. We are told that the office is too busy to see us and we are to return the following week. Ideally arriving at 7 am (two hours before they open) so we can secure a spot sometime later that day. Unless they get too busy again. We leave with the familiar feeling of being stunned by incompetence. We find a good lunch and leave for home. With luck, we may be able to get out of our jungle on Monday and see what happens then. We have no choice but to deal with these very special people as our deadline to get our residency is running out. If we miss it then years of torturous buggering about will be for naught!

Our friend is having a birthday in town. There is a plan to celebrate by having a “lady’s night” at the Cerveceria which is a flimsy excuse for boys to dress as girls. There is a worrying amount of enthusiasm for this plan. There is also a number of worrying radar images being circulated that suggest that Tropical Storm Nora is heading straight for us and gaining strength. It is forecast to hit us Saturday night as a fully formed hurricane. The thought of getting stuck in the jungle again is not something we look forward to. There is also the issue that we will likely have to get to the immigration office and potentially live there for days. We make a call to lock down the treehouse, pack a few bags, head to town and see what happens.

We meet up at the beach for a few early drinks. The hurricane is coming. It’s already raining and remarkably the waves are huge, the swell massive and moving almost horizontal to the beach North to South. We haven’t seen the sea like this. Neither has anyone else. A couple of clearly insane surfers take their boards to the beach and study the water. They soon re-gather sanity, think better of it and retreat to town without drowning. The rain gets heavier and all the bars shutdown and so we also wade through the already flooded streets and retreat to town. It’s highly unlikely we will be able to get home tonight.

There was a good amount of distraction at what turns out to be essentially a birthday drag party as the rains come in and the winds start taking down trees. There are at least three cars and two houses under branches by midnight. The streets are under water and gusts of 120 km/h whip rain at all angles into everything. We camp out at a friend’s house and awake to more rain. News from Puerto Vallarta is that it’s been hit hard. Main highway bridges are destroyed and houses have partially collapsed. We walk through the river/streets in the rain to the beach. The waves are again heading straight towards the beach which is how it should be but the lagoon has breached into the ocean. There are unspeakable human waste type things in that lagoon so we won’t be going in the sea for some time. We have a slow breakfast and decide to try and get home. We are not confident.

It’s soon clear we are in for some fun. We are unable to reach our first river. The road has concrete lumps sticking up from a deep crack filled with water. It’s not possible to drive over or past it. We park up and grab our bags and start the hike in. The water is fast and strong and it takes all our attention not to get tipped over. There are branches all over the roads.

We reach the second river and again struggle across. We meet a local lady who we help to cross back the other way. She tells us the next river ahead is way too dangerous to cross. We believe her and follow across her land to where there is access to our road through a hedge that bypasses this crossing.

The next thing we find is that the organic farm close to us has been badly hit again. Palm trees have blocked the road up to the highway and trees are leaning again their gate. One of the new massive concrete electric poles has come down and is leaning on their house fence dramatically. It is blocking any access by any vehicle. We avoid the downed power lines that sit in large puddles of water.

The next river is the one we respect the most. We know that people have drowned trying to cross. Thankfully one of the big machines that had been moving earth did some work in this spot and moved a island of rocks which divided the water and caused deep channels. The water is strong but not higher than our knees so we both make it. We meet our neighbor who comes out to greet us. He was at our place the previous night checking in on us. The winds were unprecedented and exposed any weakness in any tree. There are lots of branches and vines on the floor but also a huge tree that has entirely blocked the road 100 meters from our gate. Its impressively huge and not quite fully on the ground so full of tension. It will dangerous to use a chainsaw so we need to get a gigantic machine in to move it. We just manage to climb over it and cross the last river. We are home. It starts to rain again. We can see no obvious bad damage. The 150-foot-high Capomo trees are still upright. The treehouse still standing. We are thankful.

Morning arrives and it’s finally stopped raining. The sun is just coming up as we pack up every document we have and wade out to find our car. We arrive at the immigration office sometime before 10am. It is empty. No one there except staff. We learn that Puerto Vallarta has been effectively closed down as they recover from Nora. It appears the perfect time to arrive at immigration is the Monday morning after a devastating hurricane. Who knew?! We sign in and are immediately directed to a window where an inscrutable young lady who we recognise from previous visits takes our thoroughly prepared stack of documents and endless copies of everything. She sends us off to the bank next door and requests we return with further receipts and copies. Our mission is to keep her happy. Maybe even get her to smile a bit, so we comply.

Half an hour later we are again in front of our window. Happy-pants seems pleased enough with our progress but still no smile. We sit for an hour in front of the grumpy guards that are obviously even more bored than we are. They force me to wear my soaked shoes. Bare feet are unacceptable. We are then asked back to the window to sign a document. We then sit for another hour. We are the only people there. They have nothing else to do. It’s remarkable how they are dragging all this out.

And then it happens. A flood of activity. We are fingerprinted with their new electronic scanner machine. Our digital signatures are taken. A white board is rolled up behind us as our tired faces and wild hair filled with bits of tree are photographed from all angles. A further hour of sitting and we are presented with two plastic cards. Happy-pants gives us a small, tiny, slightly sarcastic smile. Each card has a photograph that looks nothing like us but have the words Residente Permanente written in bold type above. Our way home is strewn with power lines, power poles, downed trees and crazy rivers. We won’t have internet for a week and we are exhausted…. but… we never, never, never have to come to this immigration office ever ever ever again! It’s a great day.

Jungle Journal

Poo Bags & Time Out

August 3, 2021August 3, 2021
by Beave

My radiant immortality is in question. It has been decided that because we are of a certain age (just me actually) it would be wise to indulge ourselves (me) in full medical screens. I’m more tempted by a delusional Peter Pan existence where such things are reserved for the very, very old (clearly not me). The best health clinic in Puerto Vallarta we can find is located and booked. We must present ourselves at 9 am, in the city, with a selection of recently harvested body fluids and samples. We are required to fast for 8 hours before my arrival. Not even a cup of tea is allowed. Not ideal.

The day arrives. After a few unusual morning contortions to collect samples (and no tea) we head to the big city with bags of unmentionable things in hand. The day does not go according to plan. There has been very heavy rain overnight. It is later confirmed that over 11 inches of rain fell in just over 5 hours. The mountains have disgorged massive amounts into our valley. The trickles of water carving patterns in the ground outside our gate have transformed into a 30-foot-wide, fierce, rock filled raging torrent. We look at each other and decide very quickly that it’s not worth risking ending up in the ocean.

We turn back just as the internet packs in. For the first time this year we are trapped and entirely out of touch. We return to the treehouse to wait it out and find that I had forgotten to take my technically challenging stool sample with me. I almost dislocated myself successfully getting what I needed into the undersized ziplock bag that now sits on our kitchen table. Jayne is unimpressed.

Our rainy season is transformative. Hot beautiful days are concluded with showers of fireflies and deep, bone shaking thunder. As the sun dips, clouds of many varieties and colours of butterflies precede blinding sheet lightening. The sounds of the jungle have moved on from the screaming cicadas and squawking chachalacas to the more melodic changing symphonies of endless bugs, frogs and beasties. The rivers are running and our roads are again slowly turning to rock pits as the water invades everything. It is now entirely possible to sit quietly and watch the jungle plants grow. Life surrounds us.

The rescheduled medical is upon us and we find ourselves in the big city with poo bags in hand. We undergo a series of prods and xrays and scans while parts of us are taken away for further research. We are told to return for the results in a week.

Our friend is trying to take advantage of an over stay visa amnesty where it is possible to get temporary residence without income checks and an annual visit to immigration offices. Immigration offices are famously horrendous pits of pedantic administrative hell. So it’s worth a shot. We spend a torturous hour or so waiting outside an immigration office, in the sun, with a ticket to eventually go into the office to be told by incompetent administrators to come back with further endless copies of pointless documents. We are eventually asked to return the following week. Jayne and I are required to be witnesses to our friend’s good standing. Not sure how that will play out. She’s a bit dodgy.

Jayne has an absolutely understandable desire to see her family in Canada. She hasn’t seen her parents in years now and hasn’t even met her nephew in Vancouver and he’s nearly 18 months old. Due to Canada’s tight border policy, if you are not vaccinated, you spend a silly amount of money being the guest of the Canadian government approved hotel/jailhouse for 10 days before you are allowed to mingle. The UK has also announced that unvaccinated folk must quarantine on arrival. This makes visiting our families effectively impractical unless we are vaccinated. For this reason, despite our low risk lifestyles, we decide to take up the opportunity to get jabbed.

27 000 AstraZeneca vaccines have been released to be distributed over a 48 hour window in Puerto Vallarta. We find ourselves in the city, on the final day of the program and head to the naval base very close by where a long line follows the contours of the vast building and way beyond. The thought of queuing for hours in the heat is too much for us. We head for a second location at a nearby gymnasium. 20 minutes away we are told. After 45 minutes of traffic we arrive to find a mass of people swamping the entire area forming loose queues and looser mobs. We can’t even see the building. The place closes at 3 pm and there is not a chance we would be anywhere near the front of the line by then. We head back to the naval base as fast as we can. We arrive to see a lot fewer people, manage to park and get in line. The queue is moving fast and we are soon at the gate. This is explained when we meet two armed guards who advise us to go back to the gymnasium as they have run out of doses. Our hopes are dashed.

There is no forecast re-release of vaccines in the city expected for some time. The vaccines distributed outside the city are most often Chinese or Russian version that are not accepted by the Canadian government. This makes Jayne very sad. We find a restaurant and take down a few huge plates of restorative sushi before heading for home after a tough day.

Jake has decided that now is the time to reintroduce himself to “real-life”. He has a flight booked back to the UK where he has arranged to quarantine at a mate’s house and pay for a series of Covid test on his arrival. All seems well until we realise that Spain will not allow anyone in who does not have two approved vaccines. He is way too young to get vaccinated here in Mexico and privately funded vaccines are not available. Second vaccines are months away so he is stuffed. We arrange to reroute his return flight via Amsterdam. Apparently, even though Brexit Britains are not welcome in the Netherlands they will allow him and his bags to pass through quickly if he brings a recent negative antigen test result with him. We will miss the bugger but it’s time for him get moving and earning again. There’s only a finite amount of paradise a bloke can handle.

A good mate arrives from California to stay with us for a few days. She is travelling with her husband and 4-year-old son. They have rented a very posh condo-apartment in the city but want to rough it with us for a few days. They are here to take advantage of the dental tourism industry that has popped up in Puerto Vallarta. Dental care options are excellent in PV. Incredibly they were quoted $22k US dollars to get one single tooth fixed in San Francisco. They have come down on holiday, rented a cool place and paid for all sorts of dental work for a tiny fraction of that cost. To make things even stranger they have rented out their place in San Francisco while they are away and are actually turning a profit on the trip!

It’s odd, in a good way, to have guests again. They are here for a very short time and our weekend is packed. We spend another splendid day on the sailboat and eating way too well at the fancy restaurants near the marina. Sunday is a Birria breakfast then a long painful football match against some overachieving Italians that I don’t want to talk about. Solace is taken by swimming in the sea outside Tomatina’s bar in Lo De Marcos as the sun comes down in its spectacular way. It’s always immensely satisfying seeing our life through new eyes. Especially friends and especially a crazy four-year-old. We are lucky.

The next morning, we are up early, cram into the Sub and head to the city. We drop off our guests and Jake at their higher-class world of room service, pools and flushing loos where we arrange to meet up later. We head out to do our stuff. Our immigration interview is on time. As official temporary residents, we sign a few photocopies of our ID and this is apparently enough to allow our friend to be officialised and many steps closer to her residency. At no time are we asked any questions at all about our friend’s good standing or our relationship with her. It is not clear that we even know her! This does not seem to be an issue. We leave in good time and head to the clinic for our medical results.

We meet our assigned doctor who carefully goes through reams of results and data with us both. Jayne goes first and after 20 minutes it becomes obvious that she is both irritatingly young and unbelievably healthy. Then it’s my turn. My heart, lungs, prostate, ziplock bag and most surprisingly my liver are all in pretty good shape… “for my age”. After the usual nagging about cholesterol and blood pressure I am advised to eat more good things and maybe drink less beer but certainly increase my intake of Tequila and Raicilla. Our wise doctor has a grandmother who makes Raicilla. He absolutely advised me in his capacity as my medical advisor that tequila is life. I respect his advice. We will all meet again in a few months to see how we (me) are going. Could have been a lot worse so I consider it a win. Jayne remains silently young and smug.

My lovely friend rings me from her posh condo-apartment to tell us that her dentist had told her that there was an extra batch of vaccines arriving at the gymnasium now. “No one” knows and there are no queues. We make it there in 15 minutes flat and before we have had time to think are directed to sit on chairs with about 50 other people. A trolley follows a guy with a clip board. When clip board guy has all the details he needs then a large lady with nice eyes and a syringe drops the needle into my arm and moves on. We are required to sit still for 10 minutes to check we have a fair chance of surviving and are then released. That was it! They have it all very professionally dialled in. No wonder they can get so many thousands of vaccines done in such a short time. The group of 50 who have just arrived are told they have run out of doses. We are lucky.

We spend the rest of the day congratulating ourselves on a far more successful and productive day by meeting up with Jake and abusing our friend’s hospitality by leaping noisily from pool to pool in their oversized and under occupied super resort. We are feeling absolutely fine. Maybe all the talk of post vaccine symptoms have been exaggerated.

They have not. The day after we both wake up and are shocked by how crap we feel. The dull ache from the jab has somehow travelled to every muscle and joint. Neither of us has a spark of energy. It takes most of the morning to simply get tea into us both. It’s a pretty horrible day of moaning and self-pity. We get through a sleepless night and thankfully begin to feel more human and functional again.

A friend of ours is having a few medical issues and has been admitted to hospital in San Pancho. We undertake to go and see him. We are both aware that trying to get in and out of San Pancho hospital is a chore as they have a ward with Covid cases and they keep everything pretty much inaccessible. Jayne is starting to feel like she has a sore throat and maybe the start of a cough. The vaccines are not effective for a while yet so she wants to get tested before she inflicts herself on anyone. She heads into the hospital and asks for a checkup.

It takes a few hours but Jayne appears with a handful of prescriptions for a mild chest infection. They refused to give her a Covid test. The test site in close-by Sayulita is open and so we head there and pay our money and get her tested. It’s a quick process and within 10 minutes we meet up again and plan to head into town for lunch as we await her results. As we return to the car we notice a doctor in full PPE dramatically running out of the hospital down the street towards us waving his hands in the air. He shouts at us, through his mask ,that Jayne has tested positive and needs to go home immediately and await symptoms. We make a quick stop at the pharmacy and do just that.

Jake somehow manages to stay healthy and is allowed to leave Mexico. It is with great relief his Covid test, like my own, comes back negative. This avoids him being stuck in quarantine in the jungle for another few weeks. We make it to the airport early and in no time, he is on his way. I’m very sad to see him go but I am grateful we got to spend so much time together. We are very lucky to have had that. I now need to prepare for my daughter who is due here in just over 6 months, three weeks and four days. Not that I’m counting or anything.

I also, somehow, remain virus free. It could be that the crushing heat was not entirely to blame for my few weeks of lethargy and uselessness last year. We are both entirely thankful for that. Jayne is proper sick and needs care. If we were both this bad we would have been stuffed. She has no energy and absolutely no appetite. I can’t persuade her to eat anything. She has a high temperature. Her throat is very sore and she can’t talk. Despite this, nurse Beave postpones taking any joy from the situation. She has a persistent cough whenever she is awake. When she is awake, no one sleeps. Thankfully when she does sleep, which is often, she is peaceful and her breathing remains good. It’s a worrying time that lasts over 12 days before she starts to improve. Covid is shit. It’s easy to see how, if you add age, existing health conditions and breathing problems, it can kill you. Jayne is continuing her recovery. Slowly to avoid any post-viral fatigue issues. We are lucky. Our very good mate in South Africa has just lost his amazingly beautiful wife to Covid. They were inseparable. It’s so very sad.

In a few months’ time, maybe, we will find a second vaccine and, maybe, fulfil all the travel criteria necessary to visit family again. That will be a good option to have.

Jungle Journal

A Dream Gift & High Tide Burn

June 30, 2021June 30, 2021
by Beave

The Cirque de los Ninos is showing signs of life again. The circus school in San Pancho has been supported by the mighty Cirque de Soleil for many years and has been spoilt by being given access to world class equipment, training and resources. The world has changed, of course. Cirque de Soleil has just emerged from bankruptcy post –pandemic and has been sold. Its future is uncertain. A much-anticipated massive Cirque de Soleil theme park construction is currently on hold 40 miles away from us in Puerto Vallarta. No idea what the future holds for them but our little town’s little circus has somehow survived so far.

The kids’ extravaganza show has again been cancelled this year but hope is that it can be revived next year. For now, they are offering acrobatics and circus skills training open to anyone a few times a week. Jake has been sucked into their circus ways and is training to throwing himself around like a champion. We are also presented with small community shows. A few wildly bendy contortionist dancers hypnotise us for an hour of swinging about and contemporary dance moves. It’s all highly impressive.

As Jake is chucking himself about I am lured into the community gym which is sited right next door to the circus venue. Within are a few local boys who are properly skilled Thai boxers. The fastest of them is a highly skilled fighter and coach. In my distant past, I did a spot of martial arts. Amongst the many and varied bizarre adventures in my youth was a spell fighting in the streets of Bangkok in staged Large Farang v Tiny Thai bloke street fights. It was a betting game and fixed outcomes but we put on a good show. Invariably the win was to the little guy. The Thai boys and girls and especially the boy-girls were incredibly skilled and fit athletes with shins like iron bars. They regularly broke full coconuts hanging from trees with stunningly powerful and accurate flying back round house kicks. You don’t want to get your head in the way of one of those. I’m distracted by such memories and in a fit of nostalgia somehow agree to train Muay Thai amongst the younger, fitter and faster.

I turn up at the hot humid gym with a feeling of impending doom. It is with some relief that I find there are large professional pads that we will use to avoid breaking each other. In my head things slot into place easily and I’m kicking and punching away in no time. Body, however, appears to be unable to get up to speed. Within half an hour my arms don’t feel like they are part of me and I’m unsure how I’m still standing up. It’s at this point I get to hold the pads for three, three minute rounds of getting battered by someone half my age. Lucky me. The pads absorb a good percentage of the power but there is enough left to whittle me down. Then it’s my turn.

Three minute rounds. Full power punching and all the kicking. One torturous minute after another then another. Three of them. Half a minute rest. My body is leaking all of its senses, I’m sucking in air noisily, attempting to drink water with shaking hands in a foggy haze. Round two. It goes on. And On. Another half minute to try and make sense of all the spinny things then round three. It ends. I am stunned into a deep silence. Not sure I could speak if I wanted to. My arms don’t work. I can’t reach up to scratch my head. What I truly know is that the older I am the faster I was.

I am often asked what I miss about my former life in UK. It’s a good question. People aside, for a moment, the first few obvious ones are Draft Guinness and Greggs Steak-bake. Less obvious but equally true is the loss I feel by not having a bath in my life. Baths, for many precious years, were my sanctuary. Bubbles and candles, a duck or two. Pile of Sunday papers. Radio and importantly no water shortages. Endless top ups. I miss that for sure. Baths are not a thing here. We tried and failed to check into a hotel with a bath (just to use the bath) but there are no hotel rooms with baths. It’s a limited water, hot humidity, swimming in sea, shower culture. You don’t see baths very often but when you do…

When I saw the bath in the flat my mate Tommy is living in I went a bit daft. It’s a free-standing claw foot enamelled bathtub with high round back. It’s also very deep. I have a fighting chance getting very wet in hot soapy water. I spend a long time and lot of effort dropping way too many hints that I need to try the thing out. Tommy is away for a few weeks but on his return, I’m booked in. BYO bubbles.

It’s raining again. As soon as we drop in the cistern and fill her with water the rains come. Typical. Tropical storm Dolores comes at us full force then changes its mind at the last moment and heads West. Missed us by 8 miles which is close enough. The wet is, however, upon us. The cicadas scream their wee heads off at sunset, the pressure drops and it rains. We have seen our very first firefly. His zillions of mates are on their way. Can’t wait.

We have had mixed success with keeping the rain away with roofs. Our new treehouse roof is fabulous and we are only damp due to our humid sweating, our stuff remains dry even when the weather gets proper knarly. The rest of the ageing palapa roofs are less efficient. One has a hole in it, another a sneaky but significant leak, two others have further sneaky leaks and one we are assured is OK. By balancing on ladders and origamiing black plastic sheeting with dry palm fronds we mend the leaks and patch the holes as best we can. We smugly retire for the day and wait for the rain. Our leaks are clearly solved.

The next morning we hear that the cabana who’s roof was reported as OK has had problems after the latest overnight downpour. It’s the one we didn’t get to climb over. Probably best we didn’t. By some misunderstanding our Mariposa cabana has not been checked for termites in a while. The result is a few million fat termites and a roof where half the timbers have the tensile strength of toilet paper. The termites have scoffed the lot. It’s not a terminal termite lunch but near enough. The rain has made the old absorbent palms very damp and very heavy. The whole thing could collapse given a slight nudge. It’s clear our Argentinian friend needs to change location until we can get a team in to fix it. This is the incentive she has been waiting for. Guadaloupe, our live-in gardener girl, has decided to move back to the land of flushing toilets and windows. She has moved into a place in town… with a boy!

Further, more careful, post rain surveys make it clear our roof situation is far from useful. Despite painting the wood with nasty goop to keep the buggers at bay, the termites have stubbornly found their way into all sorts of hidden roofy places. A close pass from Hurricane Enrique throws enough water our way to prove beyond doubt that all five roofs we have (other than the new one on our treehouse) need proper attention. One requires completely replacing, three need reenforcing with plastic sheeting and fresh palms and the other needs a few more of our origami leak fixes. We don’t have the luxury of our usual prevarication and get on with the jobs as fast as the gaps between the rains allow.

Much as the world is wet our lives have become surprisingly dry. It’s a very natural thing here to take a tequila offered in welcome when you see your mates. It’s rude not to have a cold beer after doing sweaty work. Sunsets have margaritas attached to them. It’s an almost compulsory accessory. For reasons, I’m still not sure of (as I can’t quite remember how we got into this) we have all decided to be aware of what we drink in June. Or not drink alcohol. Or drink less alcohol or something like that. I approached the challenge as I did when I decided I was smoking fags too much.

I was getting on a flight from LA to London and realised I was unable to smoke for a lot of hours. I had just got back from nearly two months in the deserts of Nevada where I had been busy and awake for most of the time and smoked constantly. After a good few too many hours I notice I have had no cravings at all and my body was actually enjoying the rest from inhaling smog. This surprised me greatly. On paper, I was supposed to be climbing the cabin walls by now. I made a deal with myself that if I wanted a fag I would have one. But I would really have to want one. Not just smoke habitually.

I haven’t wanted a cigarette enough for over 8 years now so I make another deal with myself. If I want to drink I will have a drink. Anything I want, whenever I want it is OK. But I must really want it. Not drink by habit. I haven’t wanted an alcoholic drink enough for 29 and three-quarter days so far. Extraordinarily I am not missing it that much. That’s odd. I’ll see how it goes. No pressure.

Due to not learning from experience and having a VPN on our phones. We have been drawn into watching Euro 2020 (delayed) football. We see England win a game for a change and stupidly we take the bait and set out for an amazing day watching further football. By no logic and not much critical thought we decide Scotland v England has to be a good game. We waste that part of our lives drinking ginger beer and watching a bunch of Americans in a bar watching and commenting on football. It is far more entertaining than the match. We lose the will to live and remember the feeling of anticlimax and mild disappointment that is the feature of supporting most teams. Certainly England. No more football. That’s a lie.

Unbeknown to me Jayne gets a telephone call when she is in town by herself. This gives her the opportunity to make further calls and organize what is to be a memorable afternoon. She arrives at the treehouse and gathers me to go on a mystery tour. I am curious but also deeply suspicious of this behavior. I almost reluctantly get into the sub. We collect Jake who knows more than he is letting on. We then end up at my strange mate from Preston’s house on the beach. He takes us all into his new posh big V8 truck and then off the Pemex to collect Emma who has travelled in from Sayulita. I haven’t got a clue what’s going on but it’s clear I am the only one.

We find ourselves at the security barrier which protects the gated community where a number of our mates live. We park up and all walk towards Tommy’s place. Tommy and his son meet us and lead us up to his apartment. The owners have sold up and the new folk are due to move in soon but are having the whole place renovated before they do. I’m led up to his apartment with floorboards ripped up and the bathroom gutted. Tommy stands me in front of beautiful shaped thing wrapped in cloth. He removes the cloth and presents to me his gift of the bath from the apartment. Somehow, he has negotiated with the builders and acquired this lump of delight, to gift it to me. He is a top, outstanding, handsome, kind, lovely, splendid bloke. Absolutely my absolute favorite. To be fair, I kept making such a bleating fuss about the thing he probably just wanted to shut me up.

It takes five blokes and a good smattering of expletives to lift the immensely heavy iron casting to the huge V8 which transports us into the jungle where my bath is heaved to rest onto blocks we have laid out in front of the treehouse. There is much celebrating. Every time I leave the treehouse I am presented with my bath. My beautiful, beautiful bath. I can’t wait to buy bubbles, candles and ducks.

Summer Solstice is here again. Our compulsion to burn things on beaches started 3 years ago on this very night. There is a break in the weather and we are blessed with a day without rain. It’s enough time to transform another of my failed chairs into something resembling a janky coconut lady man. A matching janky base is masterfully constructed. Precious dry wood is collected. Fuel accelerant is stashed away. We decide to construct something pretty on the rocks in front of Tomatina’s bar in Lo De Marcos. We load everything in our cars and head beach-wards.

Again, our plans are somewhat thwarted by nature. It’s a high tide. Very high tide. The beach is getting eaten away at great pace. By the time we are considering unloading our dry wood the sea is at our ankles. Everyone has been washed from the beach and the beach itself has all but vanished. The sand sucked away to return another day. Not only are the rocks impassable but there is not a dry spot on the entire beach. High tide comes at us hard and dents our hopes of burning anything.

We return from scouting out alternative less accessible dry sand but find very little. There is a spot but it’s a hike. Especially carrying a janky coconut lady man, his/her base, fuel and a bunch of dry wood. A glimmer of hope appears. Thanks to a beautifully executed charm offensive by Jayne, Tomatina’s owners agree that we can set up our burn kit directly in front of them on where now a receding tide is threatening to leave our dry wood dry. It’s well after dark before the sea and tides look trustworthy and we have the confidence to assemble our solstice offering.

Its dark. The sea is far from peaceful and continues to threaten to disrupt proceedings. The fire is going well but a random wave could easily snuff it out. The long foamy fast waves race up the beach towards us getting mockingly close. The water is almost touching the fire. By sheer Canute telepathy we hold back the tide with pure will. The sea retreats and our latest Coconut Lady Man is silently consumed by flame. Perfect.

Photo Credit : John Curley

Jungle Journal

Hot Bees, Fire and Water.

June 4, 2021June 4, 2021
by Beave

We are currently being wooed by cuteness. The huge man-eating Rhodesian ridgeback couple that live in the ranch nearby have just popped out a litter of a eight pups. Now even the most bitey beasts trained to take down lions are cute for a while. Our friends are very keen that we take a few of these mini-monsters to live on our land and protect us from pretty much anything we can think of. The cuteness is tempting but these are pedigree dogs and valued way too much to consider. We have a number of semi-feral dogs that have adopted us and gratefully mop up all the bones and leftovers we toss over the balcony. They very usefully howl and make an appropriate fuss when they smell jaguars coming out of the jungle to hunt. If we were to take on a jungle dog there are large packs of more ugly rescue street hounds constantly in need of short or long-term homes to choose from. We again decide to defer committing to a full-time dog just yet. I’m sure our dog will eventually find us.

Our well is dry and that’s a problem. I dragged our sad water pump 20 metres up to find it clogged with a four foot long beard of grass and debris. The whole area is in drought. It’s proper dry and dusty as hell. There has not been enough rain in the mountains to fill the aquifers so we are buggered. The tinacos are low and running out fast so we need to do something. After a bit of research and a few outings kicking large plastic containers we buy a big blue 5000 litre cistern and have it delivered. We hire a machine and have a 2.5m x 1.5m round hole dug. We then refine the area with shovels so the cistern drops in level and true. We dig it in next to our turtle well and then spend some days trying to find a pipa water truck that will come out and fill it up. They are few and far between at this time of year when everyone is out of water. We can then drop the well pump into it and fill the tinacos. That should get us by until the rains come. There is a tropical storm forecast so things may change sooner than we think.

So, the rains they are a certainly a-comin.. In preparation, we survey where the arroyo will soon flow past our gate and urgently bring in the machine. We realise that if the floods come down the mountains it will cut our access road to the treehouse in two and we would be driving into a plunge pool if we needed to get out. Much moving of earth later the river now has a clear route safely past us and the dirt has been piled high enough to create a road which theoretically will not wash away immediately.

If there’s rain then a roof that works is always a good thing. Ours does not and we need that to change. Our treehouse palapa roof is the more robust and expensive Palapa Royal. These are tufts of palm leaves that are woven together with sheets of plastic to create a waterproof seal inside and a huge fluffy roof up top. The bugger is, that in order for us to have our old knackered leaky roof removed and a brand new sexy one installed, then we need to move us and most of our stuff out.

It’s a crap job but we have put it off long enough and resign ourselves get it done. We move most of our stuff under the bed and create a few strategic piles of boxes and cover the bed and everything else in tarps. All breakable stuff is boxed and stored outside in a highly useful temporary shed we were gifted over a year ago but never took the time to collect.

We are lucky enough to move into a beach front air conditioned room at our lovely friend’s house for a week. It’s really not so bad. We take time to enjoy being in town as Jake looks after the jungle. I’m at the house every day making sure the roof doesn’t go on upside down but the crew are great and do an extraordinary job and somehow don’t leave the place a mess. It’s a full week away from our beloved treehouse but it’s so worth it. The roof not only looks fabulous but we are safe in the knowledge that when the rains eventually get here we can smugly prance about without getting dripped on. Our first fully operational tree house roof.

Our highly useful Razor has stuffed up again. The bracket that holds the gear stick in place has snapped off. Without it it’s impossible to shift gears and it’s stuck in park so can’t be moved. The only gas welder in town has broken and we don’t have the power for an electric welder so we are out of options. The Razor stays parked up outside our house for a few weeks. We attempt to get enough power to a welder from our generator tied solar system a few times but with no luck. In desperation, we find our old portable generator which Jayne’s Dad had modified to give double the amps before the fuse blows. Despite spluttering and groaning in clear distress, somehow, we manage to extract enough juice out of it to get the welder to melt the bits in place. Thanks to our metal whisperer the welds hold and our Razor is back in service.

It’s not just us who are feeling the heat. Our bees have been active and appear happy enough. We have checked and there is a lot of honey being produced out of our four hives. Although shaded from direct sun, mottled sunlight has heated up the hives to the point where many of the bees have relocated to outside the hot boxes. They cling to the outside of the west side where the entrance is. It appears to offer the most shade and catches the most breeze. It’s completely understandable.

Our cow proof gate is ready. It lands at our place for two days so we can degrease it and add undercoat before it is hung. Jayne has extended the electric wires from the pool house and has prepared all the power we need for our automatic remote control hydraulic gate opening arm to function.

The day arrives and brackets and frames are bolted into our walls and the gate hangs, swings and closes. We are one side. The cows the other. We are delighted. After some buggering about we have the added benefit of pushing a remote-control button to instruct our newly installed robot arm to elegantly and slowly open and close the thing on demand without us having to jump in and out of the truck half a dozen times a day. Our plants are now safe. Looks sexy too.

Because it doesn’t seem like we are doing enough at the moment it has been decided that we need to rip out our kitchen countertop and sink. It is true that the sink is set in a badly warped and rotten wood frame which leaks. It is also true that the kitchen counter has not been replaced for three years. The termite eaten wood is covered in a dirty old plastic leather material and perhaps not the most hygienic of surfaces. Our architect has gifted us a number of large ceramic tiles which has been a catalyst to action. Old damp termitey wood is torn out and new wood is found, treated and cut to shape. A new sink is acquired and Jayne sets to work tiling and grouting for all she is worth. The result is a new shiny sink, posh taps that work (and don’t leak) and a respectable work surface that now shows all the dirt rather than hiding it. An improvement I am assured.

It’s getting proper hot. All the spring leaves have fallen and lay on the jungle floor in a thick carpet. It’s impossible to move around silently on top of the bone-dry covering. The whip lizards that usually go about their business unseen are now obvious as they flit about noisily through piles of leaves. There are hundreds of them attracting all sorts of predators. They move at lightning speed and drive the cats insane.

The lunar eclipse came and went very early in the morning. Too early for some but our intrepid photographers were dedicated enough to get up early, drink enough coffee to capture it beautifully.

Photo credit: John Curley.

It’s that sweaty time of year again. Even a simple job requiring me to be outside for anytime means I am soaked. I rehydrate, hang my shirt and pants on the balcony railing and lay on a towel for half an hour until they dry out. It is true that I am a muck magnet but now I’m working in this dust laden humidity its getting ridiculous. My general state of being is pretty much always damp and filthy. I’m having about three showers a day but that doesn’t seem to be helping that much. For reasons I don’t fully understand my finger nails cannot stay clean for more than a few moments. I am clearly a joy to live with.

June is here. It’s the month of the stupid flying June bugs. Weeks of avoiding the hard shelled idiots flying into your face. I have a friend in town who entertains herself by putting a light on in the evening, opening a window. As the June bugs fly in she swiftly returns them to the night with a badminton racket. Hours of fun.

The annual cicadas are back too. They have started performing their invasive droning whistle as the sunsets every night. There are a few hundred of them at the moment soon to be joined by thousands more. It will become a deafening chorus for about 20 minutes every night for weeks.

It’s late in the afternoon and as we are walking towards the treehouse there is a peculiar sound that takes our attention. It’s coming from the hills that surround us to the South. It’s a series of cracks and what appear to be small explosions. We find a good vantage point on our balcony and watch as thick dark smoke appears over the rise of the hill directly above us. The noise gets louder and it becomes clear that there is a forest fire heading our way. The wind is light but in our faces and fanning flames that are now visible. They are at least 40 feet high. Some bigger than that. There is a gently but sinister fall of ash in the air. There is a line of flames now at the crest of the hill busily devouring the dry trees and scrub as they start to head down the slope towards us. This is not good. We have no way of stopping it.

We are blessed. As the sun gets low in the sky the wind changes and moves off shore. We can see the glow of burning scrub along the horizon but it has stopped moving, the flames are much smaller and the noise much less aggressive. It takes a while but we start to relax again, confident that without the wind assistance the fire has burnt itself out. There are a number of highly experienced retired Californian fire fighters living locally. They have seen things they can’t talk about. They have often suggested to us that the humidity levels we live with here protect us from forest fires. This may well be generally true but the current drought and a little wind have made us think again.

The long-awaited pipa water truck arrives. Much celebration. The town water supply is almost done for the season and these trucks are in massive demand. A number of them have broken down so getting one to venture out this far is a result. The new cistern has been sitting for a few days and when we fill her up we find a few visitors have found their way in. With the help of a flour sieve I manage to reach in and rescue two fair sized lizards and a small snake. They are half drowned but grateful for the reprieve. The rest of the water goes in the pool. We are going to need that to survive soon.

Just about as soon as the pipa truck leaves tropical storm Blanca appears out at sea. We are subject to 24 hours of cloud which prevents me pumping our new water to where we need it with the solar well pump. In anticipation, we take down the hammocks and put everything else that won’t appreciate getting wet in safer places. It’s midnight and there are light sounds of rain in the trees, then the muffled noise of water pouring off our new roof, then it comes.

The rain, lightning and thunder are loud enough to keep my attention all night but it’s the sound of over vocal horny frogs and toads appearing from hibernation and getting at it in our pool that keeps me from sleeping. The roof holds up. We have indeed smugly pranced about and have not been dripped on. Amazing.

It’s a pleasure to experience the morning after. Petrichor (the smell of rain on dry earth) infuses everything. I reluctantly fish out of the pool the few over sexed exhausted frogs that don’t have the stamina to save themselves. Nature is alive and well after a long night. The rivers are still dry but the plants look vibrant after their welcome soaking. The storm has passed and we told we are due another few weeks of sun and dry. Raining season is not here yet. With our new river road, new gate, new roof, new kitchen top, newly repaired Razor, and new water store we should be prepared. We are not worried.

Jungle Journal

Slow Roads, Poo Smells & a Melty Tree

May 3, 2021May 3, 2021
by Beave

Our recovery from our grotty gut virus was thankfully swift. The excuse for a rest was appreciated and almost worth it. Spring has arrived. It’s a stunning time of year here. The primavera trees are in full magnificent bright yellow bloom and the colours of bougainvillea blossoms bust through the jungle. The remaining flowers the cows have chosen not to eat are popping up everywhere. The whales have moved on as the sea has warmed up. The sky is deep blue every day.

We take time to review our jungly surroundings and make plans to improve things. It’s become obvious that the road that gets us to our land is stuffed and is taking its toll on our vehicles. The sub has required new steering bits again and various suspension bolts have broken on the Razor. In one single day I managed to get three flat tyres. We have finally invested in new tyres as the ones we had were repaired so often they were pretty much held together with glue and hope. The bed of rocks that were left after the last flood were covered in lose earth but are now reappearing as the dirt dries to dust again. To protect our new tyres we decide to take action.

When the machine arrives to take on levelling the road we are confident that a few hours of pushing more muck around should do it. As is usual, we are wrong. It takes an hour to clear the rocks from just a few meters of road. The lumps of stone that are bashing our suspension are but the tips of vast boulders buried deep. When they are excavated they leave great big pits that need filling with new earth. There are dozens of them. The road is now lined with huge impressive boulders. The road is now passable without getting bashed. It’s a vast improvement. It will be interesting to see what to floods will do to it next time.

San Pancho has been considered a cool and trendy place to be for a very long time. It attracts artists, chefs and musicians from all over the world. The town has (until COVID) staged annual music, food and dance festivals. Such gatherings over the past year have been missed. There has, however, been an upsurge in murals. Local artists have been encouraged to show off their talents. Heaps of new art has appeared on the walls near the beach and around the town square. It’s impressive.

My attempts at dusting off my surf boards and getting back in the waves have been thwarted. The last of this season’s waves have been tempting me for weeks and I finally give myself permission to descend into surf beach bum mode once again. My boards are waxed and loaded and I’m ready. It is not to be.

Just before I leave for the beach I make the terrible decision to empty our loo. Our composting toilets are basically large buckets that require emptying weekly into our humanure compost heap where we bury contents under leaves and let nature make us good stuff to plant in. I very carefully carry a very full bucket down 17 steps from our treehouse and manage to chuck its contents into the compost. In the process of aiming the heavy bucket in such a way as to avoid splash back, my spine twists in a way it shouldn’t and I’m crippled. I can’t even carry my board so chances of catching waves are slim to none. It takes weeks and a few visits to my favorite back cracker to fix my poo bucket injury. More time to slow down and wait for waves. Surf bum life on hold.

Semana Santa is the week of celebrating all the saints that ends on Easter Sunday. It’s the week that has traditionally marked a vast exodus of overexcited people from the cities to the beaches. Convoys of coaches arrive outside town spewing thousands of visitors carrying tents and coolers. Huge families spend a week crammed on the beach drinking endless tins of Corona lite, playing music at full volume and eating biscuits and tacos. It’s best avoided. Those of us who live here tend to hide . Our place becomes the perfect sanctuary to avoid the masses.

Last year, due to lockdown, Semana Santa was effectively cancelled. Road blocks and beach bans were aggressively enforced by marines and federal police. Everyone is preparing for a post lockdown backlash this year. All the stores are over stocked with high walls of corona lite, biscuits and tacos in anticipation. We stock up with essentials and hide ourselves away.

Finally after running out of excuses and a huge amount of buggering about we manage to attach the polished parota shelf to the kitchen with our custom designed brackets. It’s taken nearly a year to get it sorted but worth the wait.

The anti-climax after Semana Santa 2021 is tangible. No one showed up. If anything, the week before Easter is one of the quieter weeks of the year so far. It’s a blessed relief to many but others have been left with more beer & biscuits than they know what do with.

It’s Good Friday and our Semana Santa hibernation week has been delightful . We agree that The Democratic Cocktail club will host an Eastery event at our bar. It’s an opportunity to emerge from our hiding places and meet up again. It’s another splendid evening and gives us further reason to vanish away again for a few days of recovery and peace.

Easter sees our chocolate orchid in flower. It’s a powerful orange colour that appears once every two years and gives off the distinct smell of Maltesers.

Our gate posts are completed and our actual gate is under construction. It cannot come fast enough as the jungle cows continue night raids into our gardens. We have been hosting Guadalupe, an Argentinian girl, for the past few months who has been tending and planting and nurturing our food and plant growth. In the last raid, we sadly lost most of her hard work. All our squash is gone along with, most of our lemon grass and a few banana trees. To add further insult most of our stunningly beautiful flower heads have been munched off. it’s brutal.

With the highly skilled rock work completed around our gate and hobbit door, attention has shifted to the intimidatingly tough job of getting our driveway completed. Since we agreed a price we have had half a dozen boys collecting and installing tons of river rocks for up to 20 hours a day. It’s an incredible feat of strength and sweat. The concrete is set. It’s done. We now have safe access to our treehouse all year around. It’s taken so many months of extraordinary work but it’s turned out a stunningly transformative creation. The boys are exhausted. They have worked with us full time now for over a year and have left us to take a few well-earned months rest. We now await our gate.

Our other project is also taking shape. Our summer house/scorpion temple renovation has had some serious attention. Quotes are coming in for roof sections, walls, bathroom, kitchen, mezzanine and all the bits to hold everything together. We are creating a budget from the designs as they develop and dreaming of a day when we can flip an air conditioner switch.

Amongst the springtime jobs is to keep a solid eye on our vanilla vines. It’s the time of year when we have only a few hours every morning to discover brand new and very short lived vanilla flowers and get pollen inside them quickly before they drop off. Those that pollenate will eventually develop into a vanilla bean. Vanilla is only naturally pollinated by the Malipona bee. Although native to Mexico this is a very rare creature and the chances of one happening by a flower that only ever opens for a few hours is slim. Almost all vanilla orchids are, therefore, hand pollenated.

My birthday comes and goes leaving me older and heavier. Jayne takes two weeks off work for the first time in over a year and we take time out to better appreciate our lives.

We eat oysters, drink good wine, watch sunsets and swim in the warm sea. We listen to the birds and watch the lizards dashing through the bush. It’s deeply satisfying to allow ourselves the space to do nothing guilt free.

On the day of my birth we host a party for friends in the jungle. We are fortunate to know so many creative and slightly mad mates. There is an impressive amount of dancing, singing DJ-ing and general nuttiness. Two of the slightly madder variety of friends proceed to both shock & entertain us in equal measure with a fully costumed and choreographed dance performance of” Like a Prayer” the Madonna classic. It is perhaps my most unusual birthday gift.

It has been planned for while that we take a few days away from the jungle and install ourselves with a bunch of very good friends in an exclusive beach resort which is 20 minutes away from us. It’s an idyllic spot on a secluded beach. It’s been owned by a good mate who employs great skill and care spoiling us all for a blissful few days. We return to the jungle fully restored. And certainly fatter.

About a km from our land is a water treatment plant. It’s been there for about 5 years and was built but not commissioned. Rumours are that the money put aside to connect it to the town was embezzled and so the building has stood as a testament to Mexican corruption. Over the years a number of small houses have popped up around it and it was assumed that it would eventually fall into disrepair and be forgotten about. That was until the owners of the local polo fields made a deal with the town’s sewage works to pump out partially treated water to the plant and then re-pump better quality water to the polo fields for irrigation.

The first signs that something was happening was when the power company installed electric poles and lines from the highway up to the plant. In order to do that the road out to the plant was widened and graded. After a few intense weeks of installing power, the lights around the plant came on. The night-time peace was shattered by the deep vibrations of the filtration pumps. The plant started to piss out run-off into the dry riverbed which soaked into the surrounding fields. When the fields were soaked the river started running again, filled with the outpourings from the plant.

After a week of operation, the night-time noise was the least of people’s worries. The smell of raw sewage from the plant pollutes the air for half a km in all directions. We are incredibly thankful we are far enough away not to have to deal with it. It’s revolting.

The run-off water also has its own worrying odour. It smells a like cheap household cleaning fluid. It’s a cloudy colour which algae seems to love. The wet rocks become overgrown with bright green algae and the water appears to be leaving a chalk like residue on the riverbed.

The residents of the area are, unsurprisingly, mad as hell. They have teamed up and employed an environmental lawyer who brings in a crew to examine the plant and take samples of the run-off and ground water in the area. Within a week the lights are off, the pumps are not running and the smell stops. The rivers are now dry again. The algae is gone but the river bed still has a covering of residue.

We have no idea if this is the end of the polo field’s project. We absolutely hope so. It’s encouraging that Mexico has moved on so far in so little time. Only a few years ago there was no way a community could get in the way of even a highly polluting privately funded project like this.

There are some positives to come out of this. It has certainly brought the community together. Also, large sections of the area now have power lines for the first time. This may result in a lot more terrible loud music being played but that’s slightly better than the choking smell of poo. Slightly.

Strange things happen often. Some easier to explain than others. Another of our trees one day decides to fall. This is far from unusual but this tree managed to do it in slow motion. It’s the tree where “Camel”, our giraffe, is mounted which made the whole thing a touch weirder. It’s a fair sized tree, fairly old and covered with bougainvillaea vines and flowers. Loud cracking noises attract our attention as we see the very top branches headed ground wards gently and very, very slowly. Like an old man taking a slow bow. The trunk bent in half then suddenly releases a plume of water into the sky. It’s dry season?! Where does that amount of water come from?? The tree stayed broken and balanced and wet for a few weeks as it very slowly appeared to melt onto the ground. The whole thing sorta kinda dissolved. Camel has been relocated.

Work has restarted on the highway out in the jungle. Bridges are being completed and earth moved in great quantity preparing for tarmac. Part of the construction involves a convoy of enormous heavy earth moving trucks. These beasts get access to the build sites via our jungle road. Thankfully they turn off and are diverted to the highway not far from the water treatment plant.

The impact on us is that the construction company has further widened the road from the highway and have pipa water trucks making runs many times a day to keep the dust down as the dump trucks come past. The result is that we now have a much better dirt road that takes us right up to our own janky boulder lined jungle road. Access to our place just became significantly easier. But, thankfully, still not too easy.

Jungle Journal

Pig pits, mouse hunts & a banana injury.

March 11, 2021March 11, 2021
by Beave

The New Year starts with unseasonal blankets and hoodies and even the odd beanie. I am essentially a Viking and happiest in a snow drift with an axe so this period of fresh weather is not terrible news for me. It’s is, however, not so good being the only warm-blooded bloke in the room sometimes. I am imposing strict social distancing rules to avoid Jayne’s cold feet and hands.

Our year begins with a growing list of stuff to do. In order to prioritise we actually make the list exist. Jake & Jayne’s bizarre love of spreadsheets is employed. We now have at our disposal prettily coloured pages filled with dozens of urgent and less urgent tasks. It is most likely to be used as a tool by which I am nagged. I look forward to ignoring it.

The boys have all but completed the entrance where our dragon gate will be. The round hobbit door has been formed with carefully selected and polished rocks. Soon we will be cow proof. Can’t come soon enough. The huge twats have been munching everything we have been nurturing. We are effectively growing cow food.

Jake has his first Mexican gig. He has been hired by a group of ladies and female DJs to serve cocktails at an exclusive party in a vast mansion on top of the hill in town. His life continues to improve slowly.

A mate of ours is having a birthday gathering and has decided to cook a pig to share. There are many ways to cook a pig but, as it turned out, by far the most entertaining version is chosen. Days are spent collecting logs from some of our fallen trees and interviewing pigs. It’s late at night. The wood and the honoured pig are ready to go. A deep pit has been dug in the ground. The wood is loaded and a fire hot enough to melt a tank is built. River rocks are pushed on top. We gather and ceremoniously protect the pig in banana leaves before placing it between two sheets of corrugated tin and carefully locating it in the pit which is then filled with earth. We depart for the night and agree to meet the following day to dig up lunch.

Now things rarely go as planned and almost never in Mexico for sure. When the pig finally resurfaces it is well steamed but has somehow skilfully managed to avoid being fully cooked. We are now out of wood and lunch is looking a far-off prospect. A posse is gathered to go and collect fresh wood while I am tasked to build a small fire with what I can gather. The plan is to create a spit out of a scaffold pole and roast the half-cooked pig to deliciousness.

The spit is constructed and finally the fire is at roasting temperature again and pig cooking 2.0 begins. All goes well as a tent of corrugated tin has been formed over our piggy friend to allow an even heat. He is soon smelling fantastic as his skin crisps up and thin streams of juices are released. The juices hit the glowing embers and ignite. The whole pig becomes engulfed in flame. Thankfully our host is a retired fire fighter so is able to douse the flames without entirely putting out the fire. The cooking continues.

It is said that a dozen men can BBQ happily for many days and occasionally there may even be food. It’s the highly entertaining journey to a possible feed that is the fun bit.

This may have been a slower project than planned but within a mere 16 hours the pig is released from its leafy jacket and divine porky goodness falls from its bones. The legs are wrapped in foil and thrown back on the embers to keep warm as the body of the beast is devoured by a hungry throng. It was a magnificent feast and certainly worth the efforts. We have learned how many blokes it takes to cook a pig…. All of them.

It is a sobering time in our small town. A well-loved local girl, Wendy Sanchez, who has been running a small clothing and art shop within our favorite Birria restaurant has gone missing. She set off to Guadalajara a few weeks ago and has not been seen since. Her family are understandably distraught. There is no sign of her or her car. No ransom demands. She has just vanished. Instances of young people disappearing in Mexico is very worryingly not rare enough. They call them los desaparecidos. Friends are continuing a campaign to keep her in our thoughts, put pressure on the authorities to act proactively and to send a message to those responsible that this is not something that can be tolerated.

Our abilities to make wood pretty is improving. Word has spread and we are tasked with creating polished tables for the new Tomatinas bar. Large heavy lumps of Parota wood are delivered. Gallons of marine varnish and loads of sanding stuff are acquired. Parota dust is actually poisonous and causes irritation to lungs and eyes so we must employ full PPE protection at all times. It’s a daunting job but we are fully motivated. The unusual cool weather is causing moisture in the air which can make the varnish dry in weird ways but Jake has more patience then even me. We are confident that they will be excellent. The wood is impressive and comes to life beautifully.

While we have the impetus we take the opportunity to upgrade our own tables. They have never looked better . We christen them with a Shakshuka & tequila breakfast.

Jungle peace and quiet is a wonderful thing. There is the opportunity, however, to add to the joyous sounds of nature. San Pancho has amongst its secrets a tiny shop run by a very sweet old man who is skilled at making musical instruments. His guitars are legendary. I have decided that I will treat the world and buy myself a new Ukulele. Jayne is, of course, delighted.

Jake’s fame as a bartender has spread and he has been approached by the Diplomatic Cocktail Club in town. It’s a skilled chef who offers pop up food and cocktails at exclusive invitation only events that are secret until 24 hours before. We agreed that the next secret venue would be our bar in the jungle and invitations went out the next week.

In preparation for the event we spend some time cleaning up the kitchen and bar. We find some curious fluffy stuff appearing from under the oven. Further investigation suggests that we have a mouse problem. Some mini beasts are stealing the insulation from the oven and making themselves nests. We are fully motivated to dissuade them with traps and peanut butter. The little buggers can’t resist peanut butter.

Day one and I check the traps and voila! Caught a big fat guilty looking mouse. I give him a few hours of shame in the trap before releasing him a mile away.

Day two and voila! His even fatter mate is trapped. He is a lively one so I leave him to think about what he has done until he calms down a bit. Unknown to me he has attracted some attention and we are being watched. After walking to the other side of the land to check the water lines I decide to release him into the thick bush. No sooner as he races out of the trap I hear the noise of two cats on the hunt. With luck he may have escaped.

Day three and sure enough another peanut butter coated offender is caught. This one a touch smaller than the rest and rigid with fear. I don’t wait much time to release him. A more grateful mouse I am yet to meet. He runs around in circles and appears to be dancing with delight at his unexpected freedom before zooming off at great speed towards the river.

The traps remain locked and loaded but it’s been a week since our last capture. The oven appears unmolested. Problem solved.

We have met with a number of architects over the past months to look at an investment in our land that will be a real game changer. We don’t have a single traditional window in any of our structures here. All our windows have mosquito meshing only, no glass. This makes the prospect of air conditioning impossible. This is acceptable for 10 months of the year but during those killer months towards the end of the rainy season a sanctuary with cool fresh air will transform our comfort and mental health. We have decided to transform what remains of the Scorpion Temple into our new summer house.

We currently have a large concrete foundation with a few janky walls and a totally termite destroyed roof. With some imagination and a number of months work we can create our brand new funky sanctuary. We are in the process of designing a raised mezzanine floor for a large bed, a round picture window, a kitchen with one of Jayne’s beloved islands, huge column arms with hands holding up a palapa frontage attached to a green living roof. There is even a proposal to create an outdoor bathing area. The prospect of long baths under the stars makes me very happy. First draft plans are in and quotes on the way.

Our lovely and totally mad friend in Sayulita is turning 50 and is milking it dramatically. She has arranged a beach Olympic day, a sailing trip, and a jungle party at our place. All socially distanced of course.

We gather kinda nervously for a beach cook out and whatever beach Olympics is. We have downsized our ambitions from a whole pig to a few burgers so the chances of getting fed in less than a day are vastly improved. It turns out that adding tequila to a bunch of ageing hippies on a stunningly pretty beach can get a touch competitive.

We start with more traditional daftness such as tug of war. I help by tying the rope around me, sitting down and refusing to move. It’s my anchor move and proved rather successful for the win. Spinning around a broom until dizzy enough to collapse while trying to run around obstacles was achieved by blatant cheating/distraction techniques.

All appeared to be going rather well until the banana race. This was a new sport to me so my training was lacking. The methodology is to hold a banana between one’s buttocks while attempting a hundred-yard dash. Now I am at a physical disadvantage here because I don’t really have any buttocks. My arse is best described as upper leg or lowest back. It’s hard for me to keep pants on. Being the highly motivated athlete I am, I give it a go. I have never had an over clenching injury before. I don’t recommend it. Where my arse should be cramped up and I crash unceremoniously out of the race. For the next few days walking took on new challenges. Despite the pain and the limp by far the most awkward thing was avoiding too many questions. It’s a tough injury to explain.

The Diplomatic Cocktail club’s first jungle pop-up is a total success. Over the course of a very long evening they sell out of food and all the drink. About 40 people showed up and left so at regular intervals so it was never over crowded but allowed things to click on merrily all night. They make more money than they bargained on and pulled off a memorable event, which was the point of the thing. We were designated chief food and cocktail testers and can attest that the entire menu was superb. When the time is right this might be a more regular gig.

One of the guests at the pop up is a very well-respected chef who is managing vineyards and a distillery inland. Jake and the girls are invited to visit and within days take they set off on a road trip for a few days. After a long 10 hour drive they find themselves in a beautiful valley, sipping unique wines and Mescal discussing distribution options throughout Nayarit. Endless possibilities.

The birthday sailing day started well with good winds pushing the steep angled boat through the light waves at stunning speed. We hang on tight while watching the whales and dolphins surrounding the boat. We appear to have adopted a painfully cute humpback calf which chases us while dutifully chaperoned by her massive mother.

The winds suddenly and unexpectedly decide to depart and we are left a few miles off shore for an hour or two not moving at all. It’s a good opportunity to swim around the boat. I am floating in the warm sea relaxing and watching the diving birds fishing close by when I notice the back of the unanchored boat getting smaller. The sails have caught a breeze and it’s time to swim hard to catch up. It’s much more difficult than it looks. I am comfortable sea swimming and manage not to panic but the boat is faster than I expect. It’s hard enough to maintain distance and pretty impossible to reduce the gap between us. A line with a buoy is throw out and I gratefully grab it and use the rope to pull myself towards the stern steps.

As the boat gets close I find myself in a cloud of a strange soft particles that look highly out of place mid ocean. The larger bits stick to my body hair. I clear off the worst of the mystery substance and climb onto the boat. It turns out that the sway of the boat in the doldrums has turned Jayne’s stomach and she has retreated below deck to throw up in the sink and flush it out to sea. I hastily remove the remaining odd lumps still stuck to my chest.

The following night we are invited to an exclusive private 80s themed gathering at friends renovated hotel. They are testing their kitchen and we are happy to help. We are very curious to visit the fancy hotel behind the wall that we have never seen so accept. We are accosted by strange women and suitably wrong clothing and heavy eye make-up applied. The girls back comb their hair and coat themselves in glitter. We all look truly ridiculous. The gathering is small and the venue rather posh. They have done a great job making the open court yard surrounded with rooms feel intimate and exclusive. The kitchen is large and well equipped so the chefs are able to cook up a storm. It’s a fun night but we return to the jungle early as Jayne is not feeling too well.

What happens next is best not described. Jayne appears to have contracted Norovirus and is effectively emptying herself very efficiently. It’s a very long night. We sleep very little. By the morning Jayne is in a wretched state. I head to town for sick person supplies.

Overnight one of the biggest trees in the area has come down. No wind or rain to help. This immense Copomo just decided this was its time and fell across the road, crashing onto our friend’s gate and very nearly taking the front of his house off. It’s about half a mile from our place but blocked our way into town. Our friend owns the local organic farm and is very well connected and by some miracle has a team of chainsaws on the problem immediately. The entire tree is dissected and piled into huge stacks of wood within hours. By the time I arrive on the scene at 9 am on the way to collect much needed medicine and hydrating things from town the central trunk has already been dismantled and our truck is able to pass by.

I offer my condolences for the damage and congratulate the boys on their amazing efforts. They are all friendly enough but seem to be looking at me kinda funny. The pharmacist also gives me a few sideway glances and even the check-out girl at the Oxxo seems to find me especially amusing today.

When I arrive back to revive Jayne with fluids and sympathy I notice what my tired early morning eyes had missed. The light shines onto our bed and is reflected back a thousand times. Jayne’s wet sick eyes are dark and running with makeup, her hair is standing upright on her head and the whole miserable scene is covered in glitter. I realise slowly that neither of us has showered yet. I check the mirror and sure enough my man-scara and guy-liner is still thick and my cheeks flash glittery colours. It is not a glamorous sight.

My nursing attempts are soon dutifully rewarded as I also get infected. We are totally pathetic and entirely anti-social. Everyone is now fully trained at avoiding viruses, of course, so we efficiently quarantine ourselves for the rest of the week. Our friend in Sayulita calls us reporting similar symptoms. We must have picked it on the boat trip. Her jungle party is postponed indefinitely. We rest.

Jungle Journal

Killing Thyme with a possum.

February 3, 2021February 3, 2021
by Beave

I absolutely promise that this blog will not include any mention of the over bearing heat and humidity here and my inability to cope with it. It is clear that that theme has had the life banged out of it. So, for contrast I can report that I am currently wearing long sleeves, socks and a hoodie for the first time in 3 years. December delivered us delicious fresh air. Then unseasonal rains and for fun a few nights of proper chilliness. By New Year it was 4 degrees Celcius. That’s the coldest it has been here in this part of the Mexican tropics in living memory!

The cold nights are now the new absolute topic of every conversation. Everyone is unrecognisable and proper dodgy looking with face masks and hoodies. We are all wearing the pre-Covid outfit of the ne’re do well. When we poor souls try to gain sympathy from the rest of the world we get none. To be fair it might be that most of my Northern Hemisphere mates are shivering their blue bits off in snow and ice.

Biggest change is that we have a new jungle resident. Jake, my son, has finally given up trying to make a bearable life in the UK and has effectively moved to Mexico for the foreseeable future. He has been rudely thrown out of his world as a hugely successful cocktail guy in one of the best bars in the world. Now even trying to serve socially distanced beer and food out of a tiny brewery in the North of England is considered too dangerous. Inevitably he decided to come over here and look for opportunities. Easier said than done.

Trying to find a flight out of the UK to Mexico used to be an easy business with many sensible flight options at reasonable prices. Well that’s no more. The only flight we could find was cancelled due to the early December UK lockdown. The only flights from Europe were out of Paris or Madrid on AeroMexico. So, a plan was hatched to take an early flight out of Manchester to sit in an airport in Madrid for 14 hours then fly to Mexico City and then to Puerto Vallarta where we would meet him. We find a stand-by flight which is less than the price of a new car with the reassurance that in these times of relative insanity planes are half empty so there will be lots of availability. And relax.

The endless rock driveway project is crawling its way nearer to completion. The road now is built from the top of the hill to the bottom and one and half the highly decorative stone retaining walls for our gate are completed. The final wall will feature a small round hobbitesk person access door hinged in the middle. Our ongoing plan is to create an automatically opening/closing gate at the bottom of the hill to keep the bloody cows out. They eat everything and are covered in ticks. We spend way to much effort shouting madly while herding massive stupid cows and bulls off our land. To make things a touch funkier the artist who built Well Ed the Turtle has agreed that our cow proof gate will feature Draig-Twp a Welsh dragon we created complete with top hat and monocle. Now that will be worth waiting for.

Our latest challenge has been to keep our plants alive. The cows have been destroying everything they can chew and the ants have been stripping down everything else they can’t. The newest juiciest most delicious growth just doesn’t stand a chance. Our friend Ferdy has local knowledge of what grows and what doesn’t so has been helping us plan our gardens. We have planted vegetables, herbs and flowers. It’s anyone’s guess how many, if any, will survive or thrive. Our herb garden outside the treehouse has been an unmitigated failure. This was not entirely helped by me accidentally driving over it . We clearly have brown thumbs rather than green fingers and have managed to kill just about everything we plant there. Our basil, mint and rosemary lasts but days. Our most impressive skill seems to be killing thyme. We can’t get a healthy pre-grown plant to last more than a day! It’s sorta embarrassing. We have moved our newest batch of herbs to sunnier spots and repurposed the herb area to flowers to see how long we can keep them alive.

The email arrives within 48 hours of Jake’s flight to Madrid to let us know Spain now requires a negative Covid test within 72 hours to get into the country even for transit passengers. It looks like we will have to cancel and try again later… unless. By some miracle there is a single venue we can find in the whole of the UK that will give an adequate test result within 24 hours. It happens to be in the North of England 40 minutes from Jake. He finds himself in a car park at midnight collecting stuff to shove up his nose and posting it into a letterbox with the promise he will get a confirmation email a few hours before he is due to fly. He takes the train to Manchester and we wait.

The email confirming Jake is not currently infected arrives on his phone at the last moment and he is allowed to fly to Madrid. The poor girl in front of him in the queue is cruelly denied her flight home to Madrid because her negative test was taken 72 hours and 15 minutes ago. Wow!

Jake arrives in Spain early morning for his midnight flight to Mexico City. The airport is empty and effectively closed. No food places or bars open so his much-anticipated long Spanish lunch is cancelled. Since he left the UK Madrid has declared a no travel zone from midnight. No-one can leave or enter the city without a very good reason. Tourism is cancelled. In anticipation, there has been a mad rush to leave Madrid on the very few flights that are operating. Jake’s flight is one of them. The previous flight was oversold by 14 seats. It’s not looking good. His standby flight may not work and he will have to navigate his way into a fully locked-down city where he is being told he’s not allowed to be.

He hasn’t eaten in many hours, there are no restaurants open but he finds a vending machine. It’s all sold out apart from a few remaining sad and suspicious looking sandwiches. He buys them before someone else does. He waits the final stressful hours at the check in desk trying to flirt with the check in girls while smelling of old airport shirt and vending machine crab sandwiches. His phone loses charge 15 minutes before the flight so we are entirely unaware of his fate. Is he sitting in a cramped plane wearing a stinky crab mask or trying to blag his way into Madrid for a night wandering the streets?

12 hours later we get a message from Mexico City. He has had to recheck and repack his bags to meet new weight restrictions but theoretically he is heading for the last plane and should be with us in a few hours. Most of his excess weight allowance is cheese and tea for us so we do feel slightly guilty. We head to the airport to meet him.

What arrives after a solid 72 hours travelling is a very pale exhausted and practically suffocated version of the Jake I remember from 2 years ago. We last saw each other when he boarded the flight back to UK after his last visit all bronzed and fit and charged up. He removes his face mask for the first time in days. His bright white UK winter lockdown skin is blindingly reflective in the sun. He takes some much-needed breaths of warm air and we head to the jungle.

A fitting introduction to jungle life is a close shave accident with potentially serious consequence. It sharpens the senses. The opportunity comes about by our need to manage the trees in our life. We have been introduced to Uri who is a local guy who is famed for his fearlessness in the face of gravity. This Mexi-monkey can climb just about any tree with the aid of a two-foot length of rope wrapped around his feet. It’s bloody terrifying to watch. We employ him to work with Ferdy to help us remove large lumps of tree that are threatening to land on our solar panels.

The most worrying of these is a huge Papelillo tree which is looming at a precarious angle over our battery house. The tree is a magnificent example of what is locally known as the Gringo tree. It is such named because of its red coloured paper like bark that peels off in strips like a sunburnt gringo. It’s over 100 feet high and its massive upper branches are waiting to smash our panels as the trunk cuts our battery house in half. These trees are also famous for falling down with no notice.

Uri fires a string attached to an arrow over the highest point on the tree which we use to pull up a rope. He puts his feet into a loop at one end and we literally haul him up to the top of the tree. He stands unsecured 100 feet up on a branch. He is smiling and far too relaxed for a sane person. The rope is lowered and a chainsaw pulled up. The rope is then removed and tied around one of the largest branches and the rest thrown down to us. In order to persuade the branch from falling away from our solar panels we are instructed to climb the hill behind the tree and wrap the rope around a palm tree three times and prepare ourselves. We hold the rope nervously as the branch is removed. The air is thick with fresh sawdust from the chainsaw. There is a loud crack as the branch slowly falls but is held by the rope just long enough to swing clear of the panels. We lower the hanging lump of wood to the ground safely.

We are dropped more string to recover the rope. We need to do that again. This time we plan to remove the upper section of tree. Its high and difficult to judge the size or weight of the limb but we know it’s big. When the rope is lowered to us we climb high up the opposite hillside and find a suitable tree. We wrap the rope around it three times and three of us hold the rope tightly in anticipation. There is a familiar cracking noise and the rope gains tension. Then a larger crack followed by the high-pitched scream of a rope being pulled through the jungle at lightning speed. As the rope flies off the tree and out of our hands we thrown ourselves to the ground. The limb hits the jungle floor completely unhindered by our rope. Thankfully a few feet away from our battery house. We pick ourselves up slowly and check ourselves for injuries. The rope knot hit Ferdy who is not doing well. His ribs and arm do not look good. Jake and I have rope burns on our arms but nothing worse. We are all very lucky. That could have been a heap more serious.

We gather our senses and check out Ferdy’s arm and are concerned enough to want to get him to the hospital to be checked out. He is a tough rough Mexican bloke and is happy to continue to work but we call it a day. We realise that Uri is still 100 feet in the air with no rope. Before we can deal with our wounds we need to get him down. I am tasked with firing an arrow above him. I’m not the most experienced of archers but give it a go. I learn very quickly that I need to aim a lot higher as the first arrow hits the branch where Uri’s head was moments before. Good job he was paying attention. My second attempt was more successful and we lower him down and drive back to town. The tree is many times safer. Ferdy arm and ribs are not broken but he end up very sore for a week. We all have a few extra story scars.

Hearing the Christmas was effectively cancelled in the UK makes us epically grateful we are here and Jake made it out just before things shut down entirely. Our Christmas, for the third time, was a pot luck outside jungle gathering at the bar. This time a social distanced affair. No traditional Xmas snogs this year. Folk are due to arrive throughout the day but are avoided all morning while we prepare ourselves by ingesting large quantities of British sausages and Heinz baked beans on toast. The finest of Xmas breakfasts.

Our entirely unnecessary but rather special Xmas breakfast.

Our new Covid-kitchen is soon christened. The sinks and oven are fully employed. Heating and serving and cleaning up all in one spot which makes things considerably easier. It turns out this is an opportunity for our mates to show off . We have further obscene amounts of outstandingly good food offerings delivered.

Our French restaurateur friend sets the pace by heading out to sea early morning to catch a huge dorado fish from which he creates the very freshest sashimi, ceviche & herb infused BBQ lumps of deliciousness.

Our friends from Atlanta bring the entire kit to deep fry a turkey. Deep fried turkey has so far only been a thing that Southern boys have told me about. My first taste was a few weeks earlier when we were invited to the American version of Thanksgiving Day. 45 minutes in a bucket of bubbling hot oil and what comes out is extraordinary. The skin is crisped up and tastes almost like bacon. The meat has cooked quickly at very high heat in its own juice. Untraditionally our Xmas turkey is neither boring nor dry.

A good-sized ham arrives and we add our contribution of a lamb leg. There appears a number of Xmas lasagnas (I’ve never heard of those before) and acres of creative side dishes. Our new neighbours engage in a competetive won-ton off… A Korean girl and a Chinese boy each creating their own version. We encourage such nonsense.

Notable by absence was my Mum’s Xmas cake and mince pies with chunks of strong cheddar cheese washed down with port. In truth, I didn’t much bother with them when they were piled up on our UK Christmas table but sorta kinda miss them now.

It was a proper feast and a great way to share Christmas. Throughout the day we must have fed over 40 visitors. It does not escape us how lucky we are to be able to host people in this way. Someone from my own family in the UK told me recently she hasn’t had human contact since March. That’s heartbreaking.

Jake’s birthday a few days later was a great excuse to take up an offer from our new friends in Sayulita to go sailing and whale watching. They have a 45-foot classic sail boat moored close by. We meet up and set sail in perfect conditions. Much as it’s always exciting to see whales breaching from the shore, from the bow of a sail boat it provokes a different level of adrenalin rush. They are truly magnificent creatures and big. Very big.

We spend the day, under instruction from our captain, celebrating Jake’s 26^th year by pulling the right ropes at the right times and manoeuvring this very beautiful piece of art across the ocean through pods of dolphins while spotting humpbacks tails waving and sinking on the horizon. Perfect antidote to the awkward gap between Xmas and New Year.

We have decided that we need to be better bee parents. Our termite rotten hives that were rejected by the last swarm are done for so we make the jump and commit to a couple of brand new hives. They will arrive with swarms installed and queens pre-coronated. A better class of apiary is in our future.

Our favorite beach bar in Lo De Marcos s going through some changes. A brand-new bar area is being constructed beach side which will effectively be Sasha’s new home for almost all of his awake time and there is much to do. They plan to open on New Year’s Eve. We have been tasked to make grotty lumps of Parota wood into serving trays and table tops to class up the place. Our first efforts to create sexy serving pizza and burger trays hits a few snags. After much sanding, my enthusiasm to varnish proves unhelpful. The ridiculous cold snap colliding with the high humidity is making the lovely clear varnish dry milky and a heap less beautiful. We spend days re-sanding and varnishing those trays endlessly. We deliver a few but quarantine others due to my incompetence. They are well received as they make the pizzas and burgers look well posh. Tables next.

Our treehouse is a fabulous place to be. It’s set in the most perfect altitude to watch birds and see the shimmer of the vast palm leaves as the jungle breezes skip along the tree line. It is decorated with some of our favorite things that have somehow followed us here. It is, however, a small space. It’s a lofty 20 feet square which is plenty of space for two large folk and one and a half cats to coexist but no more.

We do, however, have a frequent visitor that is testing our tiny boundaries. He lets himself in at all times of the day and night uninvited. He regularly interrupts our sleep by eating lemons remarkably loudly and wrestling with our pans. He is known to smash the odd glass and is stubbornly reluctant to leave. We have a possum squatter.

My attempts to scare the little twat with my aggressive nakedness throughout the night has been totally ineffective. I have acquired and mined the place with moth balls which we are told will dissuade him. They do not. He is sneaky and quick. We make a plan to borrow a trap from the local animal sanctuary. He will have to go.

Our new bee guests arrive. Each of the three swarms has been preinstalled into a hive which we set up. They are trapped inside by gauze for now. We place the hives carefully to allow the right amount of sun and shade then leave them for a few days. When they have recovered from their journey and are more settled we will need to remove the gauze, build the hives and feed them with sugar water.

The Possum trap arrives. Big long thing with a pressure pad that closes the door at one end. We load it with pineapple and lemons which we know the wee bugger loves and prepare for the catch. It is not long before we catch a cat. Twice. Two nights in and no fruit left, no sleep and no possum. The cat has finally learnt that it’s not the place for her but frustratingly the long-nosed freak is outsmarting us.

Our bees have been settling in long enough and need to be freed. Our co-apiarist Diego and I suit up and take on the task of building the hives. Each of the three boxes are packed with bees who are lively enough but do not appear aggressive. We have both been on the wrong end of a few too many wild bees so are mighty relived. I douse the area and the swarms with sugar water which seemed to go down well. We removed the retaining mesh on each box to release the bees who are now in sugar subdued and set up a second story on each. We install extra bags of syrup then pile rocks on the lids to prevent attack from greedy honey hunting Tahones (coatis.) We return to the treehouse in confident mood without a single sting. We now have three happy hives.

The Possum trap has been installed for over a week and so far, we have managed to feed the $%&# half a dozen lemons and a pineapple and yet we have caught no possum. The noisy long nosed %&*@ is being well fed while carefully avoiding the metal trigger plate on the cage floor. We get creative with the bait positioning but can hear him at 4am sniggering at us gratefully and loudly crunching mouth-fulls of pineapple.

Our new throwing axes and knives need an outing. It has been suggested to me very strongly that I must create a safe space before I get carried away and perhaps impale something or someone that may not be so keen to be impaled. I’m absolutely on board with avoiding non-consensual impaling so devise a plan. There is a perfect spot beside our Bodega which provides the right throwing distance and a huge wall to prevent any over throws. We have installed fabricated metal shutters onto our Corona-kitchen which has freed up a load of wood I had put aside to build wooden ones. This is now re-purposed and we create a target board and hang it on the Bodega wall. It’s perfect. So far after chucking very sharp metal things many times no one has yet been impaled.

I have lost patience with the possum. It’s 3 am and I have been awoken too many times. He’s taken to stealing cat food, he sounds like he’s chewing on gravel. It’s driving us insane. I take another long look at the trap. I stick celery sticks into peanut butter and stick them through the bars. I take a pad of paper and rest it on the trigger plate so theoretically it will make it more sensitive and have a larger area of effectiveness. I return to sleep.

Its 6 am and I am woken by the wondrous noise of a trap door shutting. One fat cocky possum all mine. We leave him in the cage to sulk till midday then I take him to the outskirts of town and let him go. There is a large field where he can bother no one. He leaps from the cage, doubles back on me and runs into a small roadside kitchen. There is a loud scream and I last see him being attacked by a shocked woman with a broom. No longer my problem.

New Year arrives at last. We’ve all been waiting for this one since March. Tomatina’s bar in Lo De Marcos starts the night off with social distanced live music played from the top of a bus. We then meet up with friends outside on the top of the hill overlooking the town and end up on the roof of other friend’s large house overlooking the beach. It was good to avoid the inevitable crowds in town.

Life throws in another spanner. My very good friend in New Zealand, Dave Lawrence (aka Hi Dive), takes his daughter and her friends to a roller disco. He is almost certainly showing off his most fabulous moves when he drops dead of a heart attack. He was my age but a heap fitter and more athletic. I attend my first, and hopefully last ever, zoom funeral. Dave was a good man and we have had far more fun that is strictly necessary in many parts of the world together. Travel well brother. The final kick in the balls from 2020.

Jungle Journal

Santa, Spiders & Fluffy Balls

November 26, 2020November 26, 2020
by Beave

It’s been a while since my last blog. I have a number of great excuses. Technical issues and our site being hacked are amongst the most useful. At one point we thought we had lost our site and all our blogs into the dark mysterious unexplainable void of the hacker’s delete button. Thanks to considerably smarter people than us we are resurrected and spending much overdue retrospective efforts backing up our backups with backups.

Excuses aside, in truth I have been cooked. The baking humidity has poached me in its moistness and rendered me stupid. My ability to move, think or function productively escaped me entirely. The last few weeks of October were bloody awful.

It is with considerable relief that I can report that on the night of Halloween the weather finally broke. The humidity vanished. No more rain. Dry season is upon us. We have delicious fresh, dry air in our lungs. I am not constantly dripping on things and leaving damp patches behind me. The ceiling fan has been turned off and there are blankets on the bed. The best thing about this exceptional turn of events is that I have stopped banging on about how unbearably hot it is. Finally.

With the passing of the rains comes the passing of the fireflies. They hatch around September and live for around two months. For some weeks, we have been parking next to our front gate on our way home. We turn off the headlights and watch as many thousands of firefly bums flash in ever changing but certainly synchronised patterns. At intervals they somehow all turn off for a moment of dark and a fraction of a second later throw their tiny lights around in mesmerising fashion . They line the river banks and tree branches; the fields are thick with them. Yesterday we tried the same trick and saw only two tiny flashing critters who are most likely mightily confused where all their mates have gone.

Day of the Dead passed us by with no celebrations, pomp nor ceremony. Even the cemeteries, where families are used to spending the night with their dead, were closed this year. This was a purely political action too far for many. The Mexican traditions of honouring your dead run deep. Extraordinary alters of photographs, candles and marigolds usually fill the town square. This year there were none. We make up an alter on our balcony with traditional flowers and non traditional symbols to honour our own lost friends and family. It’s a gesture but lacks the unique communal mix of celebration and grief that this day is here to represent.

Canadian Thanksgiving came and went. Canadians wanting to drive their huge RVs down to Mexico for 6 months on a beach are unable to cross the Canada/US border as this is not considered essential travel. The result is that the usual influx of snow birds is not a thing this year. Almost all of them have cancelled their wintering in Mexico. Despite there being considerably less Canadians here than at any other time it’s still hard to avoid them.

A gathering was arranged and for some days a truly obscene amount of food was prepared. When we finally got to the point where we could start the feast the heavens opened and it properly rained. The carefully constructed and decorated outside eating area was dismantled in moments. We made a good effort to eat as much as we could, squeezed into a considerably smaller and drier makeshift covered area. A splendid effort with enough left-over grub to keep us stuffed for days.

Halloween was also allegedly cancelled this year. There was, however, a mini revolution from parents refusing to further disappoint their bored lockdown kids. The whole of the town was packed with the usual gangs of parents dragging around over excited sugar fuelled kids dressed as ninja turtles, spider men, batmen or devils. They paraded up and down the main street as normal. In anticipation, we dressed up and took a huge bag of high sugar Mexican candy with which to dose the little buggers. I wore my theatrical gorilla mask which was perhaps misjudged for my audience. Terrified children scattered when I got close ironically throwing candy at me to keep me away. Best intentions and all that.

Inexplicably the kids didn’t exactly warm to my efforts.

Thankfully our productivity levels have risen considerably and notably as the humidity has fallen. We have serviced all our vehicles, kept the jungle fairly under control and rescued vast areas of wood from ravenous termites. We have also persisted with our river rock driveway. Despite the torturous heat the boys have worked the entire time dragging huge rocks and tonnes of hand mixed concrete up our hill. Along with our substantial road that will last for centuries they have created two splendid rather beautiful rock retaining walls. Just this week in far more optimal conditions “we” laid a further 12m of rocks. It’s all happening even if the pace is often glacial.

The fluffy ball season has started again. The Copomo trees are shitting endless quantities of these seed balls constantly everywhere. They make a proper racket bouncing loudly off our house and car roofs. If we didn’t know better we would be convinced it was raining again. I’m sweeping a full coating of fluffy balls from our balconies every morning.

It is also spider season. Although we get spiders all year around we are currently blessed with Nephila. The females are big. Their bodies around an inch and half (4cm) with legs spanning about 6 inches (12cm). They produce highly impressive webs that shine like gold in the sun. They are often called Golden Orb Weavers. The golden coloured threads they produce are very long and also surprisingly strong. When we are making our way through the jungle paths we often clothes-line ourselves by walking straight into a cross thread that just doesn’t break. We end up with a squashed nose and a slightly panicked hunt for the spider which could easily could be on the back of our head. They are poisonous with a neuro-toxin similar to a black widow so best to pay attention.

Gold spider thread gets wrapped around your head if you don’t pay attention.

A friend of ours has just returned back here after a few months away. He visited his new girlfriend’s place in the UK and then returned via his house in the USA. He very kindly and very foolishly offered to bring us things that we were having problems finding down here. We have taken full advantage. Actually, taken the piss to be honest. Our new best friend (or Santa as we now call him) drove his rather large truck over the border stuffed with our new things.

So Christmas came early for us. Our wish list to Santa included: Full set of heavy pans, large stocks of batteries, a dozen pairs of reading specs, many sets of cotton sheets, Branston Pickle, Yorkshire Gold Tea, Marmite, Paxo Chicken stuffing, Cadburys Fruit & Nut chocolate, a dart board and darts, decking screws, a backgammon set, pan hanging brackets, meat thermometer, random kitchen stuff, food processor, some earphones, two speakers, throwing knives and throwing axes. Remarkably the Mexican customs reluctantly let him through without charging any duty fees as they were extremely disappointed that they couldn’t find any drugs underneath all our stuff. Bless them.

The boy toys will be an interesting addition. We have plans to create wooden targets so we can become proficient at chucking sharp things around the jungle. What could possibly go wrong?

We have news of more bees. This time they have been recovered from the top of building in Puerto Vallarta and are looking for a new home. We agree to be that home. We awake early to find that a box of bees has been delivered to our new kitchen overnight. Our hives are looking a bit grotty as they have been sitting empty for over a year now. We clean them up as best we can and suit up. Our new technique for calming the swarm is to spray sugar water on them. They are distracted by licking sugar so have less time and motivation to sting me. I approve. It appears more effective than the smoke. “We” carry the box to the renovated hives and manage to get the queen and her sugar high swarm relocated. We leave with only a few stings (somehow a couple of less sugary bees managed to find their way up my trouser leg.)

The roof in our treehouse has seen better days. At some point, we will move out for a month and have it replaced. Maybe not top of our list for now. Some time ago we were wise enough to cover the whole roof in plastic to stop the leaks and then tied palm leaves together and placed them on top to keep an authentic aesthetic. These purely decorative palm leaves have been soaked and dried one too many times recently and are now covered in a good layer of fluffy balls. Inevitably gravity has taken effect and huge sections of it have fallen off. I can attest that hearing the sound of large lumps of palm leaves unexpectedly sliding off your roof and crashing onto the balcony is a touch terrifying. Thankfully the loads have so far landed where we were not.

There are some very reassuring signs from nature that our beautiful autumn days are back. Whip lizards dart about in our peripheral vision. Huge inelegantly oversized white butterflies are thrown about by breezes. Flocks of brightly coloured birds feed noisily high in the trees. Some stunningly large hairy spiders wake you right up when you uncover one. Bright green lizards hide motionless; perfectly camouflaged by the river plants. Whales are appearing close to shore. Whale watching season is just starting up again. It’s the best excuse to stare at the ocean for a few hours.

We returned to our bee hives to welcome in our new arrivals to find that they have all buggered off. It appears that the accommodation was not up to their standards and they have gone to find a better class of hive. We don’t really blame them. It is decided that we will invest in new hives and provide refuge to a couple of homeless queens. Despite our ineptitude we remain aspiring apiarists.

San Pancho Sunset Photo credit: Larry Drogett

The sunsets continue to stun. The water has far less poo in it now the rains have stopped so oyster season is back. My son is due to arrive here in a week’s time. We have plans to drink less tequila, eat more oysters, kayak, surf and go fishing. Now the heat apathy is no longer an excuse there is an outside chance this may actually happen. Maybe.

Jungle Journal

Flats, Anty Pants & Mud

September 19, 2020September 19, 2020
by Beave

Our short break in Puerto Vallarta was well deserved but was perhaps not the healthiest of evenings. Sasha and I are both somehow feeling a touch grotty the morning after. Our mood does not improve when we are reminded that we at some point the previous evening “enthusiastically” agreed to find our friend’s car and mend her punctured tire. She had left it in a car park that we are tasked to find.

It’s 10 am and we are abandoned by the girls who have booked various highly important procedures involving coffee, nail polish and hair removal. We are to mend the car and then deliver it to their newly polished selves at the spa. We agree never to drink again.

It’s a hot old morning so we are thankful it’s a short walk to find the car in the almost empty multi-story concrete oven of a carpark. We are both sweaty messes so set ourselves the challenge of changing the wheel in record time. It does not start well. The car is a tiny toy version of a real car. How both of us will fit in this thing is a mystery? The miniature spare wheel is the size of a Frisbee. We find the wheel nut spanner, jack up the sill and prepare to remove the flat. After much confusion and more sweating, we discover that the provided spanner is designed for nuts a few sizes smaller so is effectively useless. We are buggered.

Thankfully a car arrives with a large family inside. We wait for them to park then approach slowly to practice our Spanish by requesting a loan of a more useful spanner. The family take a few steps backwards as we approach them. We catch our reflection in their window and completely understand why. We both look like entirely dodgy sweat soaked crack head tramps. The father of the family takes control and very quickly passes us his spanner in a clear attempt to get us away from his beloved family as quickly as possible. He watches us nervously as we swear and fumble with a now considerably oversized tool and give up. We return the spanner with as much gratitude as we can muster. The family leaves as promptly as they can after making sure their car is locked and they haven’t left anything we might steal.

Our solution to our predicament is not making us any more approachable. We take the undersized spanner and position it over the nuts. We have found a threaded metal eye bolt that was securing the spare Frisbee to the boot of the toy car. We take aim and smash the bolt into the spanner and force it onto the nut. It’s not subtle and for some time not effective either but we have decided that this is our only option so we get it done. After 20 minutes of loud echoey bashing the wheel is off and the Frisbee is on.

We somehow slide our damp smelly sorry selves into the tiny car and head off into town to meet up with the newly painted, buffed and fragrant girls. Surprisingly they are not as sympathetic to our plight as we might have expected. How very rude.

The heat scale is now officially ridiculous and still rising. Even our Mexican friends have been seen to sweat and that’s unheard of. Some days it’s like being wrapped in warm soggy bread but less comforting. Pretty much the only greeting I get these days is when I’m spotted dragging myself around like a full welly boot. Some smart bugger will shout: Mucha Calor (very hot) Beave !! They are not remarking on my sexiness. I reply with a weak wet smile from a pink soggy face. Good to communicate.

This time last year I was in the jungle solo, dealing with no water and seriously worried by the lack of rain. The roads were good and the rivers dry. This year there has been rain most days since July, the rivers are raging and we have practically no roads passable without a good 4×4. Some of the recent rains have been impressive by any standards. A few are blamed on tropical storms or hurricanes passing by. Others are just extraordinary downpours for many hours sent to remind us not to relax too much. Nature is an effective social isolator.

Despite the fun of it all the boys have been plodding away at our new road. We now have three sections completed. We don’t make life easy for ourselves sometimes. It has been decided upon that only the biggest, heaviest and most improbable to move rocks are suitable for the construction. The process of traversing the swollen rivers to dig out the remarkably heavy lumps of mountain and transport them up our hill is torturous. It’s a hard labor punishment from an unlikely prison movie. But we plod on. When I say we… I have a fairly constant low-level guilt that I’m not shifting rocks every moment of the day but quite frankly it would kill me.

There is the need to breathe. We agree that it’s important to take a break from the soupy air for the sake of our minds and bodies. San Sebastien de Oeste is an old mountain town founded in 1605 and a delicious 5000 feet above sea level. It’s only a few hours away from us. We recruit a small band of escapees and book a large house just out of the center. It’s delightful. I get to wear a shirt for more than an hour… no sweating. Our lungs are filled with fresh clean mountain air. We are surrounded by rolling hills and valleys. Grass. Butterflies. Long trousers. Sleeves. Socks. Shoes. Babbling brooks. Good food. Porcelain toilets. Blissful.

Specialty of the town is Raicilla. We hike by the river amongst a variety of giant agave plants which are the source of this unique liquor. Tequila is popular worldwide and Mezcal is becoming better known but Raicilla is the secret cousin of the agave family. We take full advantage to support the local economy.

Waking up in the mountains was healing and relaxing and exactly the change we needed. I am, however, once again reminded that my life and the natural world co-exist these days. A pre-hike breakfast is being created in the kitchen below our room so I eagerly grab my cargo shorts and attempt to jump into them. Bad idea. My legs are covered in thousands of what look like bloated rice grains. I quickly deduce that a fair-sized colony of ants has chosen my shorts to create a nest and lay eggs. Each of these little white lumps are protected by a grumpy warrior ant that is conflicted by its desire to protect its egg or bite me. Many of them commit to making a run for it but at least as many drop their load and attack me. It’s not a lot of fun. I make my own escape and return armed with a broom. I spend the next hour avoiding bites from highly dedicated ants carrying their precious eggs to safer places. These places include our bed, the curtains, our clothes and shoes. Eventually they are all forcefully and uncooperatively swept down the stairs to the outside courtyard. I have earned my breakfast in my pants.

We return to San Pancho refreshed with a restored love for our jungle home. A love that is forever tested but remains strong.

Burning Man is cancelled like everything else this year. Jayne is very much missing the whole process that we know so well. That month every year has been part of our lives for so long. It’s certainly strange to not have to give it any thought or energy this year and have no feelings of missing out. We decide to mark the day of “the burn” with our own mini-jungle event. We invite people to join us for a pool day and an early evening of shared nonsense. I found a few broken chairs in an overgrown wood pile and constructed a simple wooden fella and set him on a few larger logs. It’s been raining constantly for days and everything is soaked. We apply wax from candles to give it half a chance of burning.

As the sun went down and the fire flies started their dance in the trees we soaked the base in petrol and attempted to burn our damp man. It was perhaps less spectacular than it might have been but eventually, after a heap more petrol encouragement, the soggy bloke fell just before the rains came again.

Not for the first time, nor the last, our roads become rivers. Most folk manage to get out before the rivers rose too much. Everyone, except one, who parked his Toyota Hilux pick-up truck outside our gate. Despite the size and power of the truck it turned out to be not the best move. When morning came and the rivers relaxed to normal pace his wheels were deep in what had become the river bed. The rains appear to be bringing mud down from the highway construction up in the hills. It took a good amount of time and three snapped tow ropes before the sub pulled him out. That river mud is sticky!

With all the varying restrictions worldwide we are often asked if we consider ourselves irresponsible that we don’t take social isolating more seriously. We absolutely understand the seriousness of Covid 19 and the threat to our vulnerable. We respect everyone’s ability to stay sane amongst all the sensible and some more stupid restrictions. Our circumstances here are unusual. We meet our friends in our social bubble outside. It is true that we have a rather large bubble but it is very rare that we congregate indoors. In fact, it almost never happens. Restaurants and bars here are usually outside but we still have to have our temperature taken before we can cross the threshold. Masks are compulsory inside all shops. We do make a point of keeping an eye on each other and respecting everyone’s differing boundaries. We don’t hug each other like we used to which is a real shame. Human contact is essential to a healthy life.

This week we tested our luck without even knowing it. We had a late afternoon run down to Puerto Vallarta in the State of Jalisco which is about an hour South. We found oysters on the beach and picked up some non-essentials that we can’t buy this week because of an unexplained surprise ban on alcohol sales in the state of Nayarit. Independence Day & Jayne’s Birthday are both on the 16th September and we suspect the government wants to take the fun out of it.

We leave for home just after 10 pm. Flashes of lightening are becoming more frequent out to sea and in the mountains. We are halfway home when the sky opens. It’s almost impossible to see out of the windscreen even with all three of the Sub’s wipers going at full welly. We are pretty sure if this keeps up we will be trapped in town for the night and start making contingency plans. We keep going and manage to leave the rain behind us but suspect it is following close by. We are highly relieved to find the rivers passable and arrive home safely just as the storm catches us up. I open the back of the Sub to collect a few things and make it to the treehouse in record time. Dispute my impressively athletic speed I’m absolutely soaked to the bone.

It rains. It really rains. Hard, strong and long. We hunker down and accept our fate. The rivers will be full and impassable for some time. It could be worse. And for our neighbours that proves to be true.

The morning brings news of landslides and mud slides on the road we passed last night. San Ignacio was inundated within half an hour of us passing it. Large trucks were completely blocked in by mud. The road behind it closed due to landslides.

San Ignacio Mud slide on the highway we just missed

Slight issue with the highway thanks to the construction taking all the trees down

By mid-morning it’s still drizzling but the worst has past. The boys haven’t shown up for work which is unusual so we call them. They are confused that we don’t understand they can’t get to us. I put on my boots and jump in the Razor to explore. The road to the first small shallow river is fairly intact but the water trenches we dug are now a few feet deep and best avoided. Our small river is no longer a small or shallow river and the Razor falls into it with a surprising splash before the wheels find traction. I make my way to our gate. The rivers that have replaced the roads for the night have dragged down a bed of massive rocks as far as I can see up into the jungle. The road is gone.

I take the Razor and head to town to find out why the boys can’t make it out. A few hundred yards later I see clear why. The road-rivers have removed all the earth leaving nothing but piles of huge rocks and deep ravines. In low 4×4 I can just pass by in the Razor slowly rock hopping . It’s a superb machine but it’s on its limits and there are some bum twitching moments. I make it to the “big” river. I am stuck. Not a chance I can drive through it. It’s fast and very wide. The banks on both sides have vanished. There is nowhere to go.

On our side of the big river is Rogelio’s house that he built when he constructed our cabanas. I can’t reach him as there is a smaller but equally fast-moving feeder river between us. He and his wife and his teenage son live in the three-room structure. They are out front with a bunch of guys with shovels and things do not look normal. We shout at each other above the noise of the water in Spanish. He has had some problems I don’t fully understand so I carefully drive home, collect a shovel and walk back to see if I can help.

I manage to jump a few deep holes and wade across the feeder river leaning on my shovel for stability. I get to his house and see piles of furniture and clothes soaked and covered in thick glue-like mud. The banks of the feeder river above the organic farm opposite broke in the early hours and a wall of mud and water poured down the hill. It took out all the tobacco crop, fences and chicken houses before colliding with the river and pouring into Rogelio’s place. Every room in his house is under a few inches of wet mud and the area around it has up to a few feet of mud. He has lost pretty much everything he has. It’s a disaster.

Everyone is out to help. The organic farm is storing everything that can be saved and a large tractor and trailer is brought in to cross the big river. A large earth moving machines starts shifting the worst of the outside mud and we take it in shifts to dig out the rooms inside. It’s hard, hot work. It’s amazing how relaxed Rogelio and his family are. There is just a fatalistic acceptance that shit happens. No one was hurt. All will be better tomorrow, maybe.

Our issues with the road are certainly put into perspective. Some days later we manage to get a machine out to help us and we now have a very impressive flat wide, rock free road. We have never had one of those before. We don’t exactly want to encourage people to come up and bother us but it’s sort of bad form to have half a mile of rocks discouraging them.

Jayne’s birthday went rather well with a great feed on the beach in Sayulita followed by tres leches cake from the famous cake lady in the square. Mexican Independence Day was duly celebrated with the alcohol ban partially lifted at the last minute for no apparent reason so we were legally able to drink tequila with dinner and have a beer or two afterward. All rather civilised for a change.

The community is getting together to donate furniture and better stuff for Rogelio and his family. The roads work well and the rivers are passable. Only potentially a month or so of dampness left to cope with and eventually we get to dry out and smell a lot better. Can’t wait.