Blog - La Colina Project

A beautiful lotus growing in our pool

Currently more of a pond…

Jungle Journal

New Sky, All the Megs & Endless Possibilities

November 28, 2023November 28, 2023
by Beave

Our return to Mexico from Burning Man goes pretty much to plan. We spend two blissful weeks being thoroughly anti-social and busy ourselves doing absolutely bugger all. The growing list of jobs, tasks and projects can just wait.

In our absence the rainy season has delivered significantly less rain than expected. A lot less. The jungle is alive and every colour of vibrant green. We can see it growing in front of our eyes but it’s a bit of a worry that the rivers are stubbornly dry. The flashing displays of the fireflies entertain us every night but there are a few million less of them this year. They are attracted by the water that isn’t there. If nothing dramatic happens there is the real possibility that the town well will run dry disruptively early next year.

We notice a very large Copomo has fallen too close to our main solar panels. If it had drifted twenty feet on its way down it would have demolished them. It’s a full size 150 foot tree. It’s a stunningly huge. It has taken out a few fruit trees and now lies on the river border of our land where our fence used to be. It’s an impressive amount of wood. The trunk is too broad for even my extra-long chain saw. Copomo is not useful for construction as it degrades relatively quickly. It does burn well so is mostly used for cooking. We will have to wait for this massive lump of tree to slowly break down or organise an epic cook out.

The first of the significant hurricanes is due. We have had a few good rains but only short lived. Nothing to worry about. The rivers still aren’t flowing for longer than it takes the, still easily passable, roads to dry out and that’s not long. We spend a few days in preparation. We share satellite images of Lidia’s predicted path. The threat is somewhat increased as she moves closer. We are now expecting a full on category 4 with thirty foot waves and hundred and twenty kmph winds.

There is little else to be done. We are as waterproof as we can be and we just have to wait and see what a few decent gusts of wind can do to us.

A great assistance in maintaining my sanity and connection with the world is the Rugby World Cup in France. Time differences are not too disruptive with games at 9 am and 1 pm. Our beach front bar has been nagged and hounded for months to show every match while ignoring the American tourists who turn up insisting on watching their precious “football” games. Many weeks of epic battles ahead. Wales appear to have found their bollocks and are looking well. Springboks and All Blacks are waiting should we progress (so nothing much to worry about!). It is nostalgic to remember my youth when I endured many hours of bleeding in frozen mud and biting winds while buried in scrums and mauls to deliver a ball over a line. It was, and remains, very important.

Slowly our usual suspects start to return to Mexico from their Summer excursions North. The last few months there has been little open in town, so those few of us that have chosen to remain bump into each other all the time. Whenever we meet up we all agree that the damp heat is ridiculous and we crave a cool ocean and the odd breeze. We now prepare for the oncoming season when the town and beach fills with hordes of transient tourists and snowbirds.

The hurricane is upon us. At the last moment the warm jungle air that reaches out to sea has diverted her a little South. At one point it was predicted to hit us fully in the face. We stock up with last minute fuel and supplies and wait. The rain starts at sunset but not as much as we might expect. The issue for us, surrounded by so many huge trees, is the wind gusts. We listen nervously. The canopy is blown around noisily. The Copomos sway ominously and gracefully. It’s dark until our world becomes instantly bright as lightening hits close by followed by earth shaking thunder. And then we hear it.

There are a number of tell tale sounds when a tree is coming down. Often there are loud explosive bursts like gun fire or fireworks as the trunk splinters, followed by a low deep cracking noise and then eventually the crunch as it hits other trees and branches before the ground. What we heard was a highly speeded up version. We hear the crack and crash very quick, loud and close. We instinctively hold on tight and close to the concrete pillars in the house. After a few moments we are confident we are not currently being crushed and look outside. The Bodega is still standing.

I grab a torch (“flashlight” to you North Americans) and head out to survey the situation. I am very enthusiastically discouraged from going outside but I have to check if there is a Copomo with our name on it. The gusts are moving the elegantly tall trees a bit too much to the left and an uncomfortable amount to the right. It becomes obvious quickly that the landscape has changed. The limited light from my torch picks out a number of substantial trunks lying right next to the Bodega. There are now a great deal of new shadows obscuring our view to the arroyo.

The biggest, oldest and tallest Copomo, that we have been using as base for our compost, has finally given up to a gust of wind. It’s fully uprooted and now stretches out all the way to the arroyo. This was another ancient beast previously over 150 feet tall. On the way down it has taken a number of others. They are somehow all neatly piled next to each other. The closest missed the Bodega by inches. By midnight the winds are gone and the rain gentle. We are once again amazingly fortunate.

The following morning is blessed with slightly cooler air with the welcome smells of freshly smashed jungle and petrichor. The rivers are still not flowing. I spend an hour or so clearing the paths but can find no further damage. The roads are somehow better. The empty rivers aren’t cutting trenches and removing dirt so the rain water has helpfully created localized mud that has filled in a few holes. Could have been a heap worse.

We are without internet for the next five days. A new cell tower has been built in town that services the whole area except for us. The old tower on which we still rely on has now been dramatically relegated or often forgotten in the service/repair schedules. We call it the sugar lump. If there is a drop of rain then it’s done for.

We cannot rely on sugar lump anymore. In order to ensure WIFI we need to invest in a satellite system. This is, as always, not simple. We tried one out that was loaned to us. Because of our canopy (lack of sky) it wasn’t able to cope. Our plan is to pick a tree and acquire a long pole and a brave soul who can climb up and install it for us. Our mate turns up with his drone and launches it above the trees. According to the altimeter we will need to get the dish at least 100 feet up to stand a chance.

I am walking over our land to check the water, avoiding the Golden Orb spider webs and macheting the new growth. There is something different that I can’t quite work out till I look up. The huge Copomo that is no longer up has left behind it a massive amount of sky. Brand new gorgeous sky and lots of it. This one single tree accounted for a great deal of shade. The total area of sky above our panels is now about a third bigger. This explains why we are noticing that the solar panels are converting photons surprisingly well. There are loads more of them!

On returning to the house I look above the Bodega where the downed trees were and again find a new large blue patch where once there was none. The sun floods through the windows in the morning for the first time. The big old Copomo that fell we estimate to be over 150 years old. The last time light hit this bit of jungle floor was over a hundred years ago. It will transform the place. We might even get some sun hungry fruit trees going.

We have finally acquired a satellite internet device and a long heavy pole to attach it to. After much research a number of stand-off brackets have been created that we can screw to our chosen tree with lag bolts. This is the considered wisdom to keep our Copomo happy with the procedure. The trunk will accept the lag bolts as new branches and not push them out. Amazingly we have found a bunch of absolute lunatics that have accepted the challenge of installing the thing.

We can’t help but be uncomfortable as the over confident boys rope up and start climbing. We follow their progress nervously until they vanish into the high branches. Eventually the pole assembly is hauled up higher than we can see from the ground. It takes a number of excruciating hours and some very questionable Tarzan moves but somehow the dish is clear of the canopy, the pole is secured and the cable connected.

Internet signal floods downwards. Lots and lots of it. Twenty times more than we have ever had before. Jayne is ecstatic. It means that she no longer has to dash into town to borrow signal when ours drops out in the middle of a meeting. No more will our sugar lump connection be lost for days due to a bit of rain. This is very good news. And more remarkably, no one died.

Halloween and Day of the Dead arrive. We celebrate Halloween with a party to christen a newly constructed pool at our friends’ condo complex and a competitive fancy dress beach party. There is a great deal of effort put into both costume and cocktails. The horse won. Day of the Dead is a marked in Puerto Vallarta by an enormous world record 24 Meter (78 feet) Catrina statue that dominates the Malecon. In San Pancho it’s a quieter affair. We create our own traditional alter in the trees to invite my Dad to join us. It’s emotional as always.

There are strong and tempting rumours of a very discrete gathering of creative nonsense somewhere around the Nevada/California area. Should such an impressively secret event actually exist, consciously outside the pseudo-reality that is social media and unspoken of by participants, then it would certainly tickle our curiosity but be very tough to write about.

If it was a option to be personally invited and sponsored to allow us to learn more then, theoretically, we would have to fly to Reno and stay with friends for a few days and then travel to an unadvertised venue, should such a venue exist. The timing of such a trip would mean we could possibly be in an area where the weather would test our soft warm tender slow cooked Mexican bodies. Should I decide, for reasons unknown, to wear a kilt for three days straight in minus 8 degrees, for example, essential bits of me might go into shock, change shape and texture. Perhaps.

If we were to imagine such a place it may involve many rooms filled with creations from boundless and varied imaginations designed to challenge and delight thousands of possible people. A snarky AI driven Furby Octopus could exist to bitch and argue with you. A room that takes the colour out of your existence would be unlikely but not impossible. There may be talk of bizarrely complex adventures driven by anonymous phone messages. A psychedelic clown cabaret show could be a thing. Entertaining elevator and gate shifts might coexist amongst DJs and extraordinary art. There could be a highly engineered ski lift ride through tantalising and almost unbelievable landscapes existing behind a gentle tea room. There is an outside chance that there could exist rooms of roses, music , bodies, eyes and ice. Or not. This could all be a figment of our delusions or a secret never to be told. I really couldn’t say.

Jungle Journal

Perfectly Natural

October 2, 2023October 2, 2023
by Beave

There are constant reminders of the pecking order in our chosen place in the world. We are often reminded that we are absolutely here at the good grace of mother nature and all her wishes and whims. Should she decide we are no longer welcome we are buggered. It’s a constant challenge where we maintain our gratitude and respect for her and she does as she pleases. So far so good.

We are in that tangibly muggy purgatory period as the dry season changes to wet. The humidity is real and there are occasionally some dramatic thunder, lightning and strong rains for an hour or two. We wait for the big rains to come, the rivers to rise from the dirt, the trees to fall and the roads to wash out. So far is it is a somewhat dry wet season.

Our project to capture more photons to fill our batteries has progressed well. The frame we designed is awkward and heavy and requiring of hours of painting, drilling and further painting. It’s location is very carefully argued. There is only a few hours of morning sun that breaks through the canopy available to us. Holes are dug and concrete mixed and a bunch of mates with muscles summoned for erection day.

It went OK. The half dozen awkward heavy panels are eventually slotted onto the frame and after some fiddling and essential swearing are successfully bolted down in a very sweaty and inelegant process. In order to protect the new structure from any future hurricane conditions safety ropes are installed to trees and planks of wood cut to length to hold up each corner. By adding these props and tie downs we have a fair chance the thing will not blow away.

It’s early days, but by capturing sunlight for those few precious hours in the morning to top up the couple of hours when we are currently collecting in the afternoon our batteries will potentially last twice as long. This gives Brian (our generator) a much needed rest. There is also now the possibility, should the sunbeams align, of turning on our air conditioner. This is a game changer. We have had no air conditioning for six years. It’s an interesting realisation that we have been at this for six years now.

Jayne heads to Canada to spend time with family and enjoy a break from me and our jungle world which is heating up noticeably. When she returns we will have but a few days before heading to Burning Man.

The humidity is brutal. With my new jungle solitude comes an opportunity to submit closer to the new natural pace of life. I make a conscious decision to allow myself a period of doing very little and releasing myself to what may come. This involves a lot of naked sweating, blatant prevarication and delicious guilt free laziness. I even find the time to read an actual book for the first time in an embarrassingly long time. After a couple of weeks I realise that there have been very few things that have persuaded me to leave the land. I have been effectively a surprisingly content hermit. There are a number of essential jobs that I manage to complete, but entirely in my own hot, sweaty and slow, time and space.

It’s been a year since I have left Mexico so the familiar process of preparing for another month dedicated to what Burning Man may bring is a little strange. I finally unpack from the corners of my luggage all the dusty bits and bobs from last year’s stormy, stinking hot and covidy burning man and replace them with fresh nonsense. Who knows what we will need.

Last year’s Nevada adventure was so extreme with dust storms and extraordinary heat that we made do with a few bikinis and goggles. I think I broke my own dubious record for living in the same pants for the longest time. This year we just don’t know so pack something for every occasion along with way too much make up and far too many costume options.

Our logistical burden is considerably eased as last year, in the confusion of dust and covid, we somehow managed to persuade the “org” (those with power and influence at Burning Man) to pick up The Growler (our trailer) and store it for us. Theoretically it will be waiting for us as we arrive on site a week or so before the event starts. It’s practically impossible to rent a truck with a tow hitch in Nevada so we have always had to blag a truck in Reno to tow our very old sun baked, graffiti covered living box from its storage spot near Pyramid Lake the 50 miles to site. This involves getting registration, a full set of working lights and risking the ancient tyres for one more trip. We also get to pass every overeager state trooper (at 29 miles an hour) with what is effectively a “bust me I’m a hippy” bait trailer. This stress maybe a thing of the past if we play our cards well.

So we fly to Reno and meet up with all the people. After a few days of relaxed organization (one trip to Walmart and two to Trader Joes) we arrive in daylight to be met with the welcome sight of The Growler. We start the process of cleaning and nesting so we can start work building a fun camp for the communications team, construct our infamous viewing deck and raise Media Mecca. This is the interactive meet and greet space from where the flock of over enthusiastic drone pilots, journalists and media folk are carefully and expertly managed. We are organised and have a handy bunch of buggers on our crew so it shouldn’t be difficult.

We are settled in and we have a plan. We arrange a pre-build meeting and prepare ourselves for the challenge of a few intense build days. Then our good mate mother nature appears to further remind us who and where we are.

It is Sunday around midday and it starts to rain. In 2004 it rained a little as the event started and the chaos was unforgettable. The salty dust crust on which we live turns to a ridiculously sticky wet clay which grips to your feet and will suck down a vehicle in no time. Nothing can move. The lines of traffic trying to get into the event were stranded. The only solution is wait for the sun to dry up all the rain so itzy bitsy hippies can move their trucks again.

There is much more rain than 2014. A lot more. It’s a week before the event and we are surrounded by water and seas of glue. It’s impossible to open the container where all our wood and equipment is waiting to be transformed. If the old dried out wood gets wet we are buggered. So we wait. We share food and resources and make the best of it. No one is going anywhere. There are only a few thousand folk here and our stocks of all supplies are not worried. It’s an exercise in patience and self-care. We are very good at caring for ourselves and each other so it’s just fine. After a few days of exhaustingly intense selfcare we dry out and prepare ourselves once again. This time last year we were pretty much done with build and we haven’t even started yet. No pressure.

It’s midnight on Tuesday and Wednesday appears under an impressive star filled sky. We drive an art car out into deep playa and arrange a game of petanque (bocce) with brightly coloured lit up balls under the moonlight. It’s a beautiful night. Someone on crew has a “one wheel” on which one’s balance skills and delusional confidence are tested. An electrically powered single wheel attached to a modified skateboard propels the rider who is balanced above it at speeds up to 20 mph. The playa is flat and smooth after the rains and moonlight visibility is clear. It appears an ideal space to give it a good go. We do not have any protective helmets or pads but that doesn’t seem to be an issue. I am forcefully advised by my less confident selfcare assistant that it’s not a good plan for me as we have a long few weeks ahead and the prospect of me smashing myself up is not ideal.

I return to my flashing balls game as my mate Josh, who is currently awaiting his selfcare assistant to arrive, takes off on his first attempt unhindered by wise advice. He is pretty good at it. He arrives back at speed, wide eyed with growing over confidence. It does look like fun. Until it doesn’t.

On his fourth attempt he is now flying around us. He swoops past the art car and then instantly the wheel stops. Josh does not. There is a crunching noise and worrying cloud of dust.

When I get to him it does not look good. He is winded enough that he is struggling to breathe at all and his eyes are looking distressed. It was something of a relief when he started moaning and stubbornly refusing to lie still. I felt his shoulder pop back in place and noticed a particularly squidgy bit on his collar bone. By some mad twist of fate, in this desert void way out from the event space, there happened to be a real life ambulance just cruising around. Ironically the one wheel was dispatched to retrieve the crew who within minutes pick up Josh and take him to Rampart (the newly built triage & EMT center.) Thankfully Burning Man provides excellent EMT facilities to service a fair sized city.

Josh becomes the first passenger of the year on an emergency medical evacuation flight to Reno. Although he has a broken collar bone, cracked scapula and bust ribs which are all inconvenient and irritating he has not broken his neck or damaged his brain (much). He is incredibly fortunate although perhaps not feeling so lucky.

The next day we are confident enough to open the container and the hard stuff begins. More crew have made it out and there are enough willing hands and built up enthusiasm to knock everything out in just a couple of days. Everything looks just about perfect as the gates open.

Josh or “One Wheel” as he is now called, turns up just before the crowds arrive. He is all fixed up after an operation in Reno and has decided that burning man is the ideal place to heal and caught a lift back. His selfcare assistant is at his side so it’s much more likely to happen. He is stubborn enough to not miss his first burning man entirely. He has one good arm so he can get back to work.

It’s Friday when we hear that more rain is potentially forecast. We watch as vast sand storms skirt around us but mostly they are near misses and we remain dry. Until we are not. We are caught on the outskirts of the city visiting friends when it becomes clear that the rain falling is a substantial downpour and will most certainly be changing everyone’s lives significantly for some time. The water settles in vast shallow lakes moved around by the wind. The radio broadcasts endless corny rain themed songs and strict warnings to rest in place until further notice.

Some bloody idiots just can’t bear the thought of doing as they are told (it is the land of the free you know !!) and try and make a run for it. As predicted they are buried up to their axles within a few meters. It’s chaos, but no matter who you think you are, we are all in the same muddy puddle. It’s another lesson in patience and helping others to stay warm and dry and just a little drunk.

We are grateful to be taken in as refugees in a very well-resourced camp. A large red carpeted tent full of perfectly bemused strangers gets slowly overcome with water. At one end is a tiny bar that has notably high end booze offerings. The guy who introduces himself meekly as bar manager does not appear confident. He tells me he has been drafted in but doesn’t drink and has no experience at all. He opens a fresh bottle of outstandingly expensive whisky and deposits half a pint of the amazing stuff over a cube of ice and hands it to me nervously. I congratulate him on a very decent pour.

Remarkably, attached to this tent is a separate fully equipped kitchen with stand up freezers and large stocks of food and wine. Chefs wade through the puddles and deliver freshly made pasta and meats to soak up the dozens of bottles of cheeky Bordeaux’s and the odd Pinot Noir that are being rapidly consumed. No booze less than toppest of shelf or deepest of cellar is even considered. We have certainly hit the best refugee camp on Playa. We are wet and cold and only a little tipsy after a few cheeky bottles of red and only a couple of pints of whisky. We all cram into our mate’s trailer that offers warmth and a tiny dry corner to attempt to pass out while listening to the rain hit the roof. It’s a long night but we are amongst the fortunate ones.

The next morning after a final flush of morning rain we are absolutely surrounded by miles of muddy water. I climb out the trailer and monkey climb my way from table to chair to the big red tent. Its red carpet now under a few inches of water. There is no one around except for one muddy soul sitting on a soggy coach smoking a joint. She smiles at me. No words are necessary. The floor is strewn with full bottles of Krug champagne and the remains of the excellent red wine stocks. I help out by collecting an armful of each and returning to the trailer to present my hunter gatherer breakfast.

After breakfast we are suitably refreshed to try and brave the mud and return to camp. What would usually be a half hour stroll is far more of a mission. We encase our feet in duct tape and plastic bags or go commando. Bare feet is my preferred way to go but it’s a much slippier option. It takes well over two hours to arrive close to where we live. At some point we eventually arrive back and exchange tales of our overnight survival.

What happens when you leave your mate alone for too long

And then we find out that the world is taking an interest in what is happening. The previous week when a few thousand of us were trapped for days was not really news worthy. Now around 70 000 folks being told they can’t go anywhere is proper news. There are some amazing rumours.

One news outlet is declaring that there is an Ebola outbreak that no one can escape from. Our comms team has to send out a declaration that no communicable diseases have been reported. We are all waiting for the sun and all will be well in a few days.

We get all the messages from deeply concerned family and friends on the outside. You are on the news! Are you Ok? Has anybody drowned in the mud or resorted to cannibalism? It’s actually only been 24 hours of further self and community caring. That’s a good space to be in. We are just fine. Everyone who gets it are just fine. There are some people who consider their need to be elsewhere important enough to bugger everyone else up but not too many of them. They will be the last to be rescued.

Media Mecca is effectively the communications center for the whole place so we have ways to communicate. This gives us access to all the world wide news reports which we find a little disorientating. What we see are extraordinary images that suggest an entirely alternative existence that in which, apparently, we are currently living. A drone photo of a mess of RVs all stuck trying to exit on gate road is shown on US prime time. We are concerned and send a copy to our mates who are out there and they tell us it’s make believe. It’s a creation of AI. Then we see other published images of what we are going through. Nothing authentic at all. AI has created a story in pictures of what it has decided is happening and publishing it to the world as fact. It’s stunning that you really cannot trust much anymore. Even, bizarrely, your own eyes. The following images are all AI creations. Extraordinarily… none of this happened and none of the people exist.

Eventually some bloke called Joe Biden sends his thoughts and prayers so we can all relax . We are saved.

NOT an Ai creation. This is spectacular reality.

Our world dries up. Things start moving again. The man burns a few days late as does the temple. Both are extraordinary as most people have already left. It’s way more intimate and a whole heap less hectic. The man burns after a spectacular pyrotechnic display. The temple burns in silence as we watch from the flatbed of our truck that we have driven to the perfect viewing spot. It reminds us of many years before when not as many people were aware of this place.

Our clean up and tear down takes a bit longer to ensure we are not storing mud for future years but it’s just fine. Everyone who remains does their bit and leaves the place exactly as they found it.

We indulge in a few very slow recovery days in Reno. We find Guinness and sushi and try unsuccessfully to blend into casino life. Our bags are packed and we head South back to the humidity. It’s going to be a few well deserved weeks of prevarication, laziness, sweating, sleeping and the odd tequila. Can’t wait.

Jungle Journal

Fires , a Flagpole & All the Pink

July 29, 2023July 29, 2023
by Beave

The land neighboring ours is a huge lump of untamed nature around 20 hectares that remains empty most of the time. The family who own it have ambitions to sell to some yet to be identified gringo for a huge wad of pesos. They are somewhat deluded. The zoning is restrictive so it’s really not that saleable. The cattle that were grazing there have been moved on as they were a bit too much effort to look after. The many dozens of chickens that inhabited the area are down to but a few. There is little water and access is not good. During the rains it’s pretty much cut off.

We have a visit from a softly spoken ancient old bloke who is trying to build a Catholic church deep in the jungle. It’s a strange ambition and we have no idea why. Maybe he has decided at his very advanced years that it’s wise to make peace with whoever and maybe in some way improve his odds of salvation. He has an idea where he will pay for big earth machines to cut a road through our land and onwards through the dense jungle for the few kilometers up to his land where the Church is under construction.

Our Scorpion making it’s nest on our balcony.

He is a cheeky bugger. We very politely decline his kind offer. We risk the wrath of a vengeful lord and absolutely refuse to build his Church an access road. There is an existing route that follows the river up to his spot. Despite it getting washed out a number of times a year it will have to do to serve the needs of the almighty.

He is also, we discover, a resourceful bugger. He approaches our neighbours family and sells them on the idea that they can also get much better access to their land by building his road to redemption. This will theoretically make it more desirable to gringos. They agree and a line is drawn on a map. It shows the proposed construction missing our land but following the arroyo outside our house and then cutting through the jungle upwards and onwards. They agree to build a gate that can be locked which will effectively make it a private access road only. Gods work starts almost immediately.

Within two days of long hours from the massive ground trembling machinery the arroyo is cleared. A wide long stretch of strong smelling freshly uncovered earth appears where there once was trees and thick bush. We grab the Razor and decide to ride the new camino up to the Church. We get about 500M into the jungle and are stopped as the road turns into a hugely steep dusty hill. It’s impassable. Thankfully nothing is visible from the house and we are fairly convinced that when the big rains come it will be entirely destroyed, but we wish them well. Inshallah.

We meet one of the first neuvo camino users who is waiting for the gate to be unlocked. He is the local water diviner bloke and is very keen to demonstrate his skills. He uses a forked stick to find underground water sources. We all have a go. The reaction of the stick is strong and convincing. He assures us we have a water source close to the house about 10 meters down. Good to know.

Jaguars are sneaky buggers and hard to spot.

So it’s been some weeks since we were teased with promise of rain. Our well has been dry for a month. The dust is thick and gets into everything. The jungle is desperately thirsty and despite the humidity becoming increasingly flammable. We were reliably told by retired and recovering firefighter mates from California that the chances of being troubled by wild fires is very low. The humidity is always so high that fires don’t make it for long. Someone failed to tell the jungle.

Our neighbours son is standing in the arroyo looking seriously concerned. He tells us that there is a significant fire heading our way. We can’t see or hear anything so are not as concerned as perhaps was appropriate. It’s about half an hour later when we smell the smoke. If we listen hard there are certainly pops and cracks coming from the hill right behind us. There is a worrying breeze that is dropping white ash all around us. We all jump in the razor and head up the new road to have a look.

The ash is falling like light snow but it’s the only clue. Only as we get about 300 meters from our house do we see the wind assisted flames . They are at least 20 feet high. All around us are large areas where the jungle is now just piles of ash. We note that our new God given road is acting as a sort of fire break and slowing progress considerably. We don’t hang around. It’s clearly not the place to hang out. We are joined by the cavalry. A gaggle of marines turn up in impressive but maybe not entirely useful open top military hummer trucks with 50 mm machine guns at the ready. More reassuringly there are a few fire service pick-up trucks leading a backhoe for shifting dirt around.

Two hours later everyone returns satisfied we are not in danger. The biggest factor being the breeze has stopped fanning the flames. The smell of smoke is strong and ash is covering everything as a gentle but menacing reminder of what could have been. That was an uncomfortable few hours.

The sun and our jungle canopy are forever at odds. We want all the photons we can to be captured by our solar panels. The sun, however, has other ideas . It changes path as the Summer moves on and our effective photon collection times are significantly reduced. It means we run out of power and need to employ Brian ( our generator). One solution is to add another array of six panels at a place where we can take advantage of the morning sunlight. This is a complicated, technically challenging and logistically difficult project. So it is decide to do it.

We identify a good sunny morning spot and acquire the panels .New cable is found, conduited and run to the block where our batteries and inverter live. Over some weeks the metal is manufactured to assemble the frame. It’s not a simple process. Mounting holes must be drilled to fine tolerances through thick steel angle lengths. There are many new components that are sourced and delivered from numerous places that require expert installation. Jayne somehow manages to fight her way through the technical specifications and successfully plumbs the new panels ( that are not installed yet ) to the existing system. It’s impressive.

The array frame is completed, painted and with some effort erected in the correct space and concreted into the ground. We theoretically now only have to mount the panels and plug them in to have all the power we need. That will be tricky as the frame is now 8 feet in the air.

It’s PRIDE week in Puerto Vallarta and a very sensible, shy group of calm and introverted folk are assembled to visit. We all had a quiet highly relaxing day out.

Lack of rain and our dry well is a worry. Our water stores around the land are almost out. The cistern in our house is also very low and we have to accept that we won’t be catching any rain anytime soon. We call in a pipa truck which delivers 10 000 liters with which we fill our cistern, top up our emergency tinaco and flush out the well. This doesn’t help get water to most places but at least our house will be sorted. The delivery boys tell us that they are very busy. The rains are now officially over a month late. Nothing forecast in the near future.

Our tiny tomato farm is doing Ok. The tomatoes that have appeared are huge and beautiful and very tasty but not plentiful. We have had just a few from each plant. Our friend takes us around his nearby organic farm and boats he had produced 1500 kilos of top quality tomatoes this season. We have a lot to learn.

My daughter Suzy arrives from UK with an extra bag full of marmite, chicken stuffing, cheese and licorice all sorts. It’s very good to see her too. She has brought her mates who settle in the treehouse. It’s off season now so Jake also moves back from his retreat center in town. Sasha has also recovered enough to be back on his motorbike so is also back in the jungle. We are always happy having the place proper lived in. We do, however, have all the people and but very little water. We need it to rain. Soon.

Jakes best mate Luca decides to prove to us all that his best dog jungle life has not gifted him with any road sense at all. While dutifully walking at heel in town he decides to run directly into a passing car. Idiot. We are grateful he is alive. He does, however, look very confused and quite rightly ashamed.

Our local falafel seller who is also a vet is close by and confirms he has dislocated his leg. The people doctor’s office in Los De Marcos has an X ray machine and we take him along. It’s a pretty well executed dislocation but thankfully no other issues. Our town vet then knocks him out and pops all his bits back in place. Luca is now confined to no exercise and rest for a minimum of fortnight. It will be about four or five weeks until he can run around again. Looks like Jake and Luca will have a quiet month ahead.

The doctor who helped us with the Xrays is a good bloke and we decide he will be our new doctor. Our previous doctor moved away to Guadalajara to work for an insurance company. Don’t blame him as doctors ( like dentists) are not paid huge money in Mexico. We have both recently had a full medical screen and my assessment was that not only was I handsome and wise but unlikely to die anytime soon. (There might be a touch of interpretation and paraphrasing involved … but something like that.)

So it was unexpected when I got a call that my new doc wanted to see me. He told me that there was good news and bad news. I forget what the good new was but the bad news turned out to be that tests suggested that I may have an issue . Apparently for a man of my age it is wise to check things out. This was the opposite result to my recent tests so a little confusing. He contacted his mate in Puerto Vallarta and I’m booked in for an MRI.

This happens quickly. After fasting and awkwardly enduring two do-it-yourself enemas I arrive at the test clinic the next day. I am entirely unprepared for what might happen next. The clinician is a nice bloke and speaks to me in Spanish. My Duolingo skills don’t entirely cover medical procedures but from what I understood he wants to strap me to a table , attach gadgets to my body and shove me in a tiny tube. There is something else he is trying to tell me. I soon discover what that is. My knees are placed on my chest . He then asks me to breathe deeply and inserts what feels like a flagpole into my rectum. It’s not what I had expected at all. For 40 minutes I am squeezed into the truly tiny tube where I am told to stay entirely still while listening to the crazy clunks and whirls and zaps as the machine dissects my innards with its magic beams . I do my best to ignore the flagpole that is skewering me like a kabab.

The following day I am told that the images showed little to worry about and we agree a plan to entirely rule out any unfortunate possibilities. I continue to be handsome, wise and unlikely to die any day soon. ( Note possible further paraphrasing and interpretation ).

Jayne has arranged to head North to Canada to see her family. She will return in a few weeks when we will be journeying once more to the deserts of Nevada. We will both be working and playing at Burning Man for the best part of a month. Before she departs we arrange to go with a gang of excited friends to the posh movie theatre in Puerto Vallarta to see the Barbie film. It turns out that having a flagpole inserted was not the most uncomfortable thing to happen to me this week. Despite my very best efforts I could not last more than 15 minutes before I had to retreat from the cinema. I found this extraordinary pink acid trip unbearable. Remarkably everyone else loved it. What do I know ?

Jungle Journal

The Art of Doing Nothing

May 25, 2023May 25, 2023
by Beave

We are still here. Living a mostly peaceful life in our fabulous wee house in this beautiful Mexican jungle. It is difficult to comprehend sometimes. How did this happen? It was never in any great life plan. We never dreamt of this outcome.

This level of *mostly peace* was never in any grand plan.

As it gets hotter we inevitably get slower. The air is getting thicker and my wanderings around our jungle pretty much always result in delightful puddles of sweat and the need to stay still for a while afterwards. Although there is always something to do, there are growing numbers of opportunities to stop, take a breath and avoid filling the space with endless nonsense from our laptops or phones. The ability to be still and untethered by life is both a challenge and a blessing. It’s not so easy being inactive. It’s not useful to judge oneself lazy or unproductive but it often feels like that. If you call it meditation it’s much more socially acceptable to do bugger all. We are getting better at it. Doing absolutely nothing. Just being. Guilt free. Takes practice.

We are now living far enough away from the treehouse that we have taken our eye off the vanilla. It was an abundant year last year so we are not expecting too much this time around. We have seen evidence that we have missed a few flowers which have remained un-pollinated. There are even fewer flowers appearing than expected so we might have a fallow year. In anticipation we have taken cuttings of the mother plant and are attempting to introduce new growth on a number of trees around the new house. They are effectively air orchids requiring no soil. We have them hanging from the knarly Copomo trees around the house. It would be great to have vanilla babies.

Luca hanging out in jungle as Jake takes a trip to LA to see a girl

There is a now a famous end of season event on the local calendar. We are invited once again to join around a hundred friends who gather earlyish and are bused to the marina where we all embark on a cruise boat catamaran for a day on the water. Free food and an open bar is provided. The cost of the whole event is very generously covered by our friends who have gifted this day out to the community for the past few years. A great chance to catch up with everyone and keep the bar staff fully employed all day while practicing doing nothing on a boat.

Practicing the art of doing nothing on a boat

The pool has not had much attention recently. We haven’t had it clean and ready for use for a long while. It takes a heap of chemicals to keep it clear and constant attention to remove all the drowned leaves, dust and occasional beasts. As it has to be baking hot to persuade Canadians, with an aversion to cool water, to get wet so the actual days of pool use are very few. We spend more time cleaning the bloody thing than using it. It is decided that we will transform our existing set up to a natural organic version. We will add the correct balance of plants to do all the work for us. It might end up more like swimming in a lake or river than a pristine gleaming tiled pool but it’s maintenance free and ready to go at any time the need takes us. There are a number of options. We have had a few folk (that claim expertise) out to have a look. They have all offered to help us, for a price. We are considering our options.

Stunning new murals have appeared in the town square

It’s very early but we have had some rain. Not the rain that smashes us and tears away roads and trees. This rain came for an hour and left with the dust beautifully suppressed. It’s been noticeably more humid in the past few weeks so this is welcome. It’s just a taste but it’s the first we have had for six months. The weather sages are predicting a very hot summer with the El Nino affect hitting us later in the year. So more heat than usual and more storms forecast. That’ll be fun.

There is an all-night party organised at a posh event space on the beach in Punta Mita which is but a taxi ride away. It’s another fundraiser for the Mayan Warrior which is the extraordinary Burning Man art car that is fully stocked with mind bending lasers and sound weapons. Tickets are purchased and a series of reasonably appropriate costumes are created in anticipation.

Friends of ours in town have had the nightmare of waking up to find their dog had died in the night. The grumpy old twat had been with them for very many years. His age finally caught up with him. He is already missed madly. We offer to bury him in the jungle and that is arranged very quickly. We bring him from a freezer in town to a quiet, beautiful area where they dig a hole and collect a good pile of large stones. We lay him to rest in a glorious arrangement of jungle flowers and rocks. We then conduct a reasonably respectful wake to honour him. Born on the streets of Compton and buried in a Mexican jungle. Not a bad life. RIP Grocerito.

We hear rumours that the Mayan Warrior has caught fire and is no longer. It takes a while but we verify that at some point on the journey to Punta Mita a fire broke out and completely destroyed the entire structure and all their laser and sound equipment. The party is still going ahead but that is the last of the infamous Mayan Warrior. That will mean a big chunk of sky is forever without lasers and a heap more dust undisturbed by dancing.

Much loved art, energy and hardware up in smoke

A dubious group assembles to paint up and pimp themselves. A taxi is booked and we head South. Despite the absence of its’ star attraction, the party is well run and a large group of us spend the night surrounded by light & sound before gathering on the beach for sunrise. A grand farewell.

The sea is warm again and waves are rising. The sunsets are showing off and life is taking a new pace. The past few months we have had a load of our folk passing through and staying around for a while. The jungle has been full at times. We do like having our favorite idiots staying and playing here. We also like it when they bugger off and it’s quiet again. It’s been a while. This is the first time since October that we have been out here by ourselves. The balance between doing things and releasing oneself to peace and calm is just about perfect right now. We try and balance knocking things off the to-do list interspersed with periods of more doing nothing practice.

Final touches : Wood staining, sanding and varnishing many doors and many shelves

All the building and moving around and other more pressing stuff have distracted us from growing things. The gardens we have previously attempted to fill with good stuff have been left feral and most are barren of anything except the usual mix of normal jungly growth. We do discover a few healthy looking pineapples and even a few wild tomatoes. We even discover a tree with a good amount of satsuma oranges. Our own attempts at creating food have been poor this year. The exception is Thomas, our heirloom tomato plant, grown from a seed. It sits just outside the front door so we remember to throw water at it. Tom is doing well. We are excited to see a small green lonely tomatina appear. First of very many we hope.

So BBC world news reminds us that the island we left six years ago is getting itself a new king. Charles is getting his fancy hat and it’s an excuse to have an end of season get together. There only needs to be the merest hint of an excuse to dress up a little here so the decision to host a Kings & Anarchists Coronation pool party takes things to a new level. We bring together head costumes, beverages, food and a DJ deck . Over the course of a splendid afternoon many strange anarchists are joined in the pool by a stranger troupe of Kings. God save the King or indeed stuff the monarchy. You choose.

Jungle Journal

Newest New Things

April 4, 2023April 4, 2023
by Beave

It’s happened. We are in our new wee house and it’s remarkable. All the time, effort, tears, sweat, learning and adventures have come together at last. We have moved our cat and a few essential essentials out of the treehouse which has been our home for over five years. With luck and persuasion and maybe a little bribery it is my intension to transform the treehouse into my own sexy man cave in the trees. Jayne may have other less perfect ideas.

There are a few endless last minute jobs which will extend that last minute for a number more weeks but we (she) is beyond ready to move in. We have moved in.

Things are different. We now , eventually, have a massive four poster bed with stunning views of the tree filled jungle and a have the added attraction of a mattress like I have never known. It envelops us in soft delicious comfort cuddles and makes the prospect of moving much less likely. It is often impossible to tell if Jayne is even in the bed. This is entirely different from my usual reality which is being shoved and battered all night by a wall of cold arse.

The shower is extraordinary. The purple tadelakt finish is cold and stone like and quite beautiful. There are two nozzly bits where a forceful stream of warm water appears at speed getting into all the nooks and even the crannies. I have never been less mucky for longer.

We have a fridge freezer that is big enough to be useful and a new posh oven stove that not only works but lights itself. No need for lighters and damp matches. The kitchen is functional and clean and pretty. Amazingly we can now drink water and brush our teeth with our tap water. An involved UV filtration system removes all the froggy and grotty bits and delivers pure stuff we can use. All in all, after the treehouse, it’s a lot like living in a boutique jungle themed hotel.

It’s all rather pleasant but certainly different. We lucked out when the stars aligned and this bizarre and unlikely project became possible. It’s taken a few years from when we produced some sketchy plans on the back of envelopes. Our crew started in July last year and after a frustrating but exciting nine months of gestation period, here we are. We have zero plans to be anywhere else for a good while.

Our stock of life’s absolute necessities is not in bad shape. We have had many mules deliver large amounts of good cheese, marmite and Yorkshire gold tea. We haven’t, however, any breakfast beans.

Now Mexico is, if course, a world leader in the production and consumption of beans. Sadly, British breakfast beans are not a thing here. Jayne is motivated by the challenge and after much research and a few beany experiments she manages to reverse engineer the contents of a can of Heinz baked beans. They are perfectly excellent with eggs and sausages and bacon. Large bubbling pots of the “nearly the same” beans are created and frozen. We are much comforted as our essentials are restored.

Jake and Luca have moved to a quite stunning retreat center in town where they are making themselves useful and are rewarded by living their best life. Lucky buggers.

Our ability to use all our vehicles here did not last long. Before he left us for the frozen North, our savior mechanic gave everything a good look over and made educated guesses which bits would fail next. We are handed a list of parts we need to find and start the process of recruiting mules.

Within a few days of his departure, spookily, all his prediction come to pass. On the way back from town the front wheel on the Razor decides to part company. It is clear that the large bag of bearings and shafts and bushings will all be needed.

Over the past (and coming) weeks we have had (and will have) many friends travelling down to spending time here. It’s high season and the weather is perfect. That works out well for us. Parts start arriving on various flights from many places and are, thankfully, fairly unmolested by customs. By exploiting as many mechanical skills as we can discover and pulling in all the favours we, somehow, are able to re-press all the balls and bearings and replace the shafts. Huge communal effort. We are back to three vehicles again, but not for long.

Our friends, inevitably, bring new friends and we now have quite a mob of folk all wanting to get places and either do (or avoid doing) things. It is decided to look at buying a car that is roadworthy and jungle appropriate that we can lend out to our guests and mates to offset the cost.

In no time we get a call from a car auction in Tepic up North. We are persuaded that a little bright green Suzuki 4×4 is just too good a bargain to miss. We take the bait. After a short amount of buggering about finding insurance and going through the Mexi-document dance we now have four vehicles. It’s small and green and Japanese so we call her Edamame.

There is pretty much always a good reason to get together. It takes the slimmest of excuses to gather a bunch of folk and end up somewhere unexpected. When this happens there is often a requirement for tequila. It’s cultural. We are blessed with having the town of Tequila within travelling distance so there is very often someone visiting and prepared to stock up and deliver direct from source to us. We are fortunate enough to have discovered a great opportunity to acquire large amounts of the good stuff at a ridiculously low price. A country singer superstar in the USA sells his own brand mexi-liquor at (we are told) up to 150 bucks a bottle. We now know the producer who sells us gallons of the same stuff for a handful of pesos in handy plastic jugs. San Pancho is now thankfully awash with excellent tequila.

Good friends are celebrating their Wedding Anniversary and have offered to create a South African Braai (BBQ) at our place. They arrive with a bunch of blocks and in no time we have a huge wood pit ready to cook. There is great meat heating , face paints and a penis piñata full of condoms and femidoms. We now have drawers full of both!?!

Termites are greedy little twats. We are discovering our rustic railing around our yoga deck and shower block are delicious. In just a few months, when our attention was distracted, they have chomped the lot. It all needs replacing. The wooden stairs up to the Selva Vista apartment are also making us nervous. Between mold and termites there is the growing sense when you climb those steps that they have a fair chance of giving way at any time causing an irritatingly serious injury. It also needs replacing. Jayne’s brother’s family are on their way down with kids so it’s probably not great thing to roll the dice.

I am carrying a heavy box of stuff up the stairs to the apartment with both hands and leaning on the banister to prevent me falling. It doesn’t quite work like that. My weight shifts a bit as I balance on the banister, when it decides to head jungle wards. Thankfully there is one bolt that holds it to the top of the stairs but the rest gives way, delivering me upside down slowly but unceremoniously to the jungle floor with a box of heavy stuff on top. It hurts a lot and my plight is not helped by Jake seeing the whole thing and finding it just too funny to ignore. The decision is made. This staircase is history.

It takes a few weeks but eventually the old termite bitten stairway is replaced by a new bespoke metal staircase which is expertly welded in place. Looks great.

It is somewhat surprising to know the new highway, over the hill behind us, is open. This is a very good thing. Our fear after listening to them build the bloody thing for three years was that it was going to attract big lumps of antique Mexican trucks that fart along in-between screams of air brakes. Thank the gods that this has not come to pass.

It’s expensive. It costs 12 US dollars to travel a little bit faster from the exit 10 miles north of us to the exit about 20 miles south. We are in the middle so it doesn’t help us at all. 12 US dollars is a lot of money and so it is pretty much empty most of the time. The small number of posh modern quiet cars and buses who can afford it can hardly be heard at all. This is really good news. We were only able to buy this place because the rumours of the highway actually coming through our land put people off. We are proper fortunate it’s worked out not bothering us at all.

My birthday jumps up at me suddenly. Another one. We are again fortunate enough that the Cirque du Soleil project Cirque de los ninos is performing again to celebrate me. Full troupe of well-trained kids and a perfectly receptive audience makes for good circus. Bless them. Fabulous job !

The Coconut Lady Burn crew are all close by and there are a number of keen visitors who have good experience building things to burn in various venues around the planet. It is decided that it’s about time to do something on the beach again. It’s been while since the last one for all the reasons. We are also blessed with two large piles of spare wood bits from all our projects. We can knock out some scorpions out of them.

It doesn’t take too long to create all the bits we need. A dozen baby scorpions that will sit on the back of a mother beast of claw and tail which will carry the Coconut Lady Man on her back. We have also sparked the creative juices of one of the world’s very best kinetic sculptors who we are lucky to have live close to us. He is the brains and the sweat behind the extraordinary fire spurting octopus El Pulpo Mechanico and his newest touch of genius El Pulpo Magnifico. We are all excited to see what he comes up with.

There is a gathering of around eighty people who have turned up to the beach to watch our little group of sculptures light up as the sun goes down. And then it arrives. A real piece of art. A Duane Flatmo original piece. A scorpion made from all the bits we tread on every day. Palm fronds and bits of fallen detritus. It’s ugly as sin and twice as beautiful. It is decided that we can’t bring ourselves to burn it. It follows us home to find a more permanent home in the jungle.

The rest of our collective art is happily put to the flame. It was a splendid night.

Jungle Journal

Almost Possibly Maybe

February 15, 2023February 15, 2023
by Beave

After a good feed we and most of San Pancho spend new year’s eve at our friends beach bar with the lovely ladies from the world famous Freakbaby DJ’ing us through the night. We and our many guests are blessed to be part of our funky and fabulous community here. It’s going to be a good year.

There are way too many people asking us (completely reasonably) when we are moving into the Scorpion Temple, our new house. We are close. The massively intimidating list of things to do is now a little shorter. There is a strategy to deal with everything except the unexpected.

One major project is the making of our bed. We have designed a solid Amapa four poster with some sexy features. The massive chunks of Amapa have been delivered. After lots of epic joinery magic and a good amount of swearing our wood whisperers create and assemble a uniquely beautiful but extraordinarily heavy bed. When standing on the tapanko platform where the beast will sit it becomes apparent that the floor is not build to take the weight. It is decided that we will not compromise on the bed design and the floor must be strengthened.

We are thankful that it appears that the problem is resolvable by the addition of a 13 foot long 6 x 6 viga (structural wood beam) carefully squeezed underneath the existing structure and held in place by custom heavy duty metal brackets secured to the concrete support beams. The fun bit is that both the supports are at opposing eleven degree angles. I apply my limited school boy technical drawing skills to designing the brackets. I am helped by traditional tools. A pencil, rubber, pencil sharpener and a shatterproof ruler. I can’t find a protractor anywhere. This is the antithesis to CAD design.

Somehow after a few false starts we somehow manage to get this done. The beam is found and delivered. It weighs a ton. It has to be sanded, stained and cut to fit the brackets that eventually come in at fourteen degrees. The viga ends are cut at an offset of three degrees to adjust. We manage to man handle the thing onto our light scaffolding. We use muscle and car jacks to raise the beam very slowly towards the roof. The extra height is taken up with random lumps of wood and janky stone blocks. It is obvious to anyone that this is just too dangerous. Drills and bolts and straps are applied. This reduces the chance of death just enough for us to soldier on. Still not sure how but we now have a floor strong enough for us and our bed.

My phone has finally decided that humidity and my grotty pockets are no longer survivable and is expressing its displeasure by sending messages and photographs randomly to the poor buggers on my contact list. It has also decided to rest up every few hours and refuse to work. I have two weeks of juggling two phones and attempting with little success to save photos and contacts and messages from vanishing forever. I am now in the midst of trying to employ my famous patience to tame a new phone. It is not going well. My new phone is somehow becoming more unpredictably confusing by the day. This may take some time.

Even the best of our lovely traditional mexi-mechanics make a quizzical and slightly scared look when we present them with our wee Polari. They won’t touch them. The Polaris Razor hasn’t moved now for nearly a year. The gear cable needed replacing and the six month drawn out process of nagging our third “specialist” mechanic to fix the thing appeared to have created a long list of new issues and we have lost the will to nag further. Our Polaris Ranger is recovering from the last time our fourth “specialist” mechanic fiddled with it. And then our mate Geoff arrives.

Geoff is a handy bugger. He’s a self-taught mechanic living off grid in Northern California and required to work out how to fix endless deteriorating machines on his property. Within days he has cheerfully inflicted his skills on our stubborn fleet. Both our Polari are now running like champions. He just “put them together right” he tells us. Geoff also insists we replace some highly buggered bits on our Toyota to make it safe for the highway. This is helpful. That highway is dangerous enough without us adding any additional peril. First time we have had three vehicles running for an age. Long may that continue. We shall see.

It continues to be part of my daily routine to pick up Jake and head to the gym way too early. By nine in the morning I am already tired, sore, sweaty and stinky. I used to start my day with a bucket of tea and a lovely lie in. Not sure this is an improvement. I may decide to accept a wobblier body and more sleep.

Jake and Luca living their best lives together

For the third magnificent year we are called to celebrate our lovely friend Emma’s birthday by participating in “EmmaOlympics III: the return of the idiots“. We all gather on the delightfully picturesque north beach in San Pancho to compete. To add to the traditional silliness of welly boot throwing, tug-o-war and the banana buttock, backward three legged, and inserted balloon racing there is some additional events. One requires spoons to be suspended from one’s waist and thrust towards one partner. Every spoon that touches another spoon is a win. The image of dozens of folk thrusting groins towards each other made for some unique and spectacular wedding photographs. Unknown to us (or them) our event was scheduled at the same time as two rather posh and clearly expensive white weddings on the same part of the beach. Wedding guests were partly entertained but mostly bemused at our antics. Despite being nobbled with a banana I am now the prize winning chucker of welly boots. Officially the biggest tosser.

It is hard to fathom that our new house is almost ready maybe. It’s been a remarkable few years of imagination becoming reality. Pretty much everything we thought of when we first considered our designs have not only appeared but have exceeded our expectations. We are incredibly fortunate to have been able to do this. There have been so many decisions and choices to make. It can be said that Jayne and I have very different ways of doing things and at no time have we ever properly agreed on much. Despite the constant collisions of alternative opinions we haven’t been too close to killing each other. This is quite an achievement under the circumstances. So as our new home appears from the future you will forgive us banging on about it for a wee while longer.

Scorpion Temple at it’s best 5 years ago before it fell down.

Our new toilet area is complete. The parota wood has been buffed to a sheen and our bucket and sawdust installed in a rather pleasing way. We do require a screen of some sort as we have discovered that toileting is not the best of spectator sports for our guests. The tadelakt shower has dried and the effect is a stone-like pale purple sheen. Our dark wood backdoor is complete with locks and cat hole. We drilled various size test holes and inserted Mausetrappe into them until we found one that she could just squeeze through. We don’t want to encourage too much cat nonsense in the new place.

Our open staircase is backlit with LED lights to add a little wow factor and assist with late night stumbles. Under the stairs , however, it creates something of a funky shape. This is taken as something of a challenge. Our woody heroes fashion perfectly shaped drinks cupboards for junk , glasses and booze.

The two arched windows we dragged from Sayulita over a year ago are now looking fresh and proper. Custom made amapa and parota trimmed. They could do with a good clean but, then again, so could I most of the time.

All our cupboards and drawers have had a good rub over with vinegar. This seems to be fending off the effects of the humidity. With luck they will stay mold free.

The desk support is ready and in no time doing its job. The groundhog days of endless polishing, sanding, re-polishing and varnishing a huge slab of sexy wood again and over again are done. It’s turns out to be a pretty fabulous desk. This extraordinary lump of Parota will last a millennium. Jayne will soon move from her four poster office bed in the treehouse to her own bespoke workspace. It will be like having a proper job.

Our bloody earth floor has had its last chance to impress us. It has been impossible to have a floor of earth and poo not create all manner of mold. Some super strength mold killer has been smuggled down to us. After another hand wash with vinegar the new stuff is added to linseed oil and the final final coat brushed on. If we see another new strain of mold appear it has been decided the next coat will be applied with a sledgehammer.

The final scorpion iron mongery has also arrived. Custom made scorpions are built into the banister around the bed and two more will be mounted on the lower panels of the stunning parota front door. We found some small metal scorpions which will be used for operating secret places (if indeed secret places exist).

So it’s now all about our massive heavy bed. The back will be built into the bannisters that will hold our metal scorpions. It’s so close. Some fancy electrics and a strategic window have been built into the headboard. There are a few things to finish before our brand new mattress is dropped in, but not that many. It is a possibility that maybe, one day soon, there is a chance, we might move in. But don’t quote me on that.

The canopy above our treehouse is attracting a variety of birds. They are feasting on the fresh Copomo fruit and dropping nuts loudly on our cars and painfully on our heads. The commotion has attracted forest falcons. Despite their ridiculous call (like “a lady in the throes of orgasm”) they are the biggest predators here and potentially aggressive. We have lost chickens to them previously. Their appearance has coincided with the absence of our second favorite cat. Gargoyle. This wee chap can’t leave food alone and hasn’t been seen or fed for over a week so there is a fair chance we won’t be seeing him again. Bless.

In the pub with shoulder cat the day after he was rescued from a dogs mouth

Shockingly our dear friend Sasha has had a bloody awful accident. There a was an unexpected shower of rain that lasted only a few minutes but made the cobbles on a comically steep banked hill (leading to the house he was looking after) extremely slippy. He attempted to make it up to the remote house gate on his motorbike but lost the backend. Somehow he is pinned under his bike unable to move for over five minutes with the hot exhaust pressed into his leg. By some miracle he was seen and rescued but not before his leg was cooked. Along with cracked ribs he has 40 percent third degree burns to his inner thigh. After a great deal of urgent expensive medical attention he has avoided getting the wound infected. He is on a very long and tough road before he can function again. It doesn’t bear thinking about the amount of pain and patience he will need to endure to recover poor bugger. You can throw him a few quid if you are feeling flush here.

Jungle Journal

Footy, the Colour Purple and an Adoption.

December 30, 2022December 30, 2022
by Beave

The aftermath of my scorpion stings is awkward but not too bad. My right foot is still numb after 6 weeks or so. It’s coming back to life very slowly but I have had to endure the inelegance of a dead foot limp and the occasional confusion when someone actually stands on it unnoticed until I try and walk away. This never happened before. Must be that I just don’t know it’s there and leave it lying around, in the way, and forget to move it. Whoever may find themselves standing on my carelessly discarded foot, would , to be fair, naturally expect any body part they happen to crush to be pulled out the way instantly. It’s all a bit odd.

Driving has also been made more interesting. With a dead accelerator foot it feels rather strange speeding up and decelerating by means of shifting weight rather than ankle motion. This became a factor in a very near miss on our terrifyingly dangerous highway. A large modern Pacifico bus was overtaking a stalled dump truck. Before the bus pulled out, the road was clear ahead, so I sneaked behind and followed him past the stricken vehicle. Rather than slowly and smoothly returning to the correct side of the road the bus suddenly swerved away leaving me facing an enormous concrete lorry heading right at me very fast. My reaction was to instantly lean right. I accelerated fast and swerved right at the same time. Somehow I missed the bus and the stationary truck but more importantly the concrete truck which flashed past me. It was close. Closer than I feel comfortable thinking about. I still have images of that big blue and white concrete truck, head on , that I can’t forget. It has made me highly aware of my exceptionally good fortune to still be here

Football is a great healer. My trauma is eased considerably by spending an indulgent few weeks watching the World Cup with a large number of equally deluded fans. England do OK again. Just well enough to spark the damp tinder of long held painful hope that rises to entrap your heart and mind in the fantasy of some magnificent victory. But as the hope was torn away once again we were able to marvel in the overall standard of the football which at times was truly breath taking. We have a number of viewing venues depending on kick off times. The 9 am matches are a great excuse to eat chicken wings and drink cold beers for breakfast while cheerfully engaging in traditional over excited shouting of encouragement and abuse in equal measure. There are a large contingent of both French and Argentinians in San Pancho so the final was a pretty big deal. And what a final!

There have been a series of developments with our new build project. It’s getting tantalizingly close to the time we move in. This in itself will be a major change for us. We are actually moving house (albeit 300M away). We have spent the past five years in our beloved treehouse. It’s 6m x 6m of our own unique space and it has suited us very well. It will be a more than a little wrench to leave it behind so my own plan is not to. My own vision is that the treehouse will become a man cave (even if 4m higher than the ground). Jayne has vetoed moving a great deal of my prized possessions (or crap as she calls it) to the new house. This gives me a place to house my crap and enjoy the solitude and engage in boy type activities. Jayne’s vision is slightly different. She either wants to rent it out, use as a guesthouse and/or use it as a dog house should I ever be naughty and need somewhere to “think about what I have done”. Don’t see the need myself.

Before we can make such decisions we need to finish the place. There is a great deal in progress. Jayne’s mega desk is now cut to shape and awaiting application of specialist resin varnish so it will last eternally. The final flush of drawers are made and awaiting installation. For some reason it has been decided that we need dozens of them. Our upper banister that will prevent us (me) falling off our raised sleeping space is being jointed expertly into place. Our newly designed four poster bed will form part of this structure and awaits being created from a pile of freshly delivered lumber. When the bed appears we will consider it time to actually move out/in.

Our time and attention over the past weeks has been sucked up by our two most labour intense projects. Our shower which requires the application of Tadelakt (Moroccan style lime plaster) and our rammed earth floor that requires drying out perfectly before the application of a blend of linseed oils. It had passed us by that drying anything out here is nigh on impossible. The humidity is often 100% and there are times when you can hang a towel out to dry and it gets wetter!? Now if it is a very thick layer of clay you are waiting on, it appears to take forever. We have applied a number of fans 24 hours a day and (after closing all doors and windows) deployed a large dehumidifier. Despite all efforts there is almost no perceivable improvement. The floor stays damp.

It is with some desperation that we agree its time for more aggressive tactics. A blowtorch. We find that by carefully moving across the floor directing the hottest part of the flame onto the clay it changes colour in a way that suggests it’s a little bit less moist. Jayne does a few dozen passes and things seem to be changing very slowly. I decide to help. What I have not taken into consideration is that I am a pretty much constant sweaty mess. Despite using towels to stand upon and my delicate ballerina type skills to move across the floor, my guts twist as it becomes obvious that I may have in fact made matters slightly worse. The sweat that was previously in me is now distributed over the floor highlighting the occasional spot where my delicate feet have left prints. Jayne is less than cheerful as she repairs the floor and we start the process of drying it out all over again. My help is unappreciated.

We have worked out that the Tadelakt application is going to be a beast of a job. The finish of our shower will require many hours of layering and hard polishing with a special purpose hard polished stone. We recruit a friend to stay with us overnight to help out. She has no idea what she signed up for! The girls have taken on the task of managing the project and myself and Jake will be called in to help as required. The Worlds Cup is in its final agonising stages so this works out.

Day one is spent in creating a single huge lump of mixture which needs to be the perfect colour from our stock of lime and dyes. When we start we cannot stop. The whole of the shower area has to be done at the same time or the finish will be inconsistent. The existing rough grey lime finish is covered with a white base coat and our recently smuggled specialist dyes are expertly mixed by complete amateurs into enough paste of deep purple Tadelakt to complete the job.Its already late and the following day is going to be hard so the girls call it a day.

Day two and the task ahead became terrifyingly clear. The first layer of purple is spread as smoothly as possible and worked with trowels as it drys. After about an hour it is set enough to start polishing. Our black shiny stones are rubbed over the surface. It takes effort. The task is to close up all the tiny holes that emerge from the drying process and prepare for the next layer. The next layer is a mix of water and soap. The soap dries very quickly and then the fun starts. If you polish hard enough and long enough it takes up a shiny smooth stone like finish. Looks great. Then the second layer of soap is applied and polished into a final layer. The polishing technique is to apply the stone flat to the wall with enough pressure to make a difference while moving it in small circles. It hurts. There is much complaining about the burning pain in my shoulders and my arms after only a few minutes of strong rubbing. Jake and the girls seem a lot less complainy. Clearly they can’t be doing it right. I am convinced this was going to be a long day. It was.

Day three arrives and we realise two things. The shower needs finishing and we are a long way off and of equal importance, it is the World Cup final. We have already kidnapped our friend from her family and effectively chained her to a shower for an entire weekend. We make a plan. The girls will layer the tadelakt and when the game finishes we will join them for further torturous hours of polishing. It was a day of two half’s. The World Cup final was a joy to watch.

So we now have a rather unique and beautiful shower. Three days of solid graft. The girls are happy which is crucial and we gain some comfort in the fact that we may never have to rub a purple wall with a shiny black stone ever again. We find out that the word tadelakt means in Arabic “to rub until ones arms fall off” (or something like that.) Jake and I now have arms like bags of achy rocks.

EntreAmigos is our community center which has an excellent reputation. It has even been blessed by the Dali Lama. Volunteers arrange (amongst many other projects) food banks for local families, recycling for the town and encouraging local kids to read and engage in educational activity. There is a constant need for fund raisers. The latest of which is a drive to raise a lump of cash to support the library for the kids. Teams are invited to enter the Great San Pancho Scavenger Hunt. Each team must raise a minimum amount of donations and engage in a series of activities that must be photographed in order to win points. The team with the most points will be declared the winners and their wisdom and beauty immortalized in the hearts of all forever and a day. We are persuaded to join in.

We have decided to call ourselves the “Scavengers -End Game” after a movie franchise I haven’t seen. We gather the evening before to talk cheating strategies and allow the girls to dress us up as superheroes. That morning we are greeted by a dozen golf carts with eager teams keen to get started. We appear to be one of only two teams that have dressed up for the occasion. There is a jolly but certainly competitive atmosphere. I start by wander around introducing ourselves to the other teams while stealing their golf cart keys. This goes rather well until I am spotted and forced to return them all.

Our tasks are varied in their ridiculousness. We must find an old woman born in the town and all of us have our photos taken with her while she is smiling and one of us is upside down. We need to find someone to take the shot and extra points are added for any horses and chickens we can add. I draw a series of horses and chickens on cardboard and hold them up over the bemused old lady wondering why we are holding our friend upside down. She sorta kinda smiles.

We are required to all be on a skateboard, or playground slide or beach or stage or tree (always with one of us upside down and getting someone else to take the shot. There is a lot of fun had. We return late to a victory BBQ. We have all raised way more than expected. The library now has a book budget of 20k dollars. The best news of course is that The Scavengers are declared the team with most points. We are suitably humble as we bask in our collective glory.

It is time for the Americans to outdo their Northern neighbours in thankfulness. Canadians are thankful about a month earlier but the Americans make a bigger deal of it so consider themselves higher on the thankometer. We get the benefit of being invited to two competing thanksgiving feasts and are grateful for both.

Having my son, Jake, living with us has proved, in general, a very good thing. There is an issue, however, with his bizarre need to exercise at stupidly early hours of the morning when any sane individual should be unconscious. I am not sure how this has happened but somehow I have been roped into joining him. As the sun hits the sky, six days a week I drag myself to the car and drive us both to the old prison in town that has been converted to a sweaty, old school grunt gym. Here there are small stacks of huge tyres, ropes hanging from the ceiling and what look like ancient lumps of concrete attached to metal bars. There are racks of hand weights and enough mirrors on the wall that it is almost impossible to ignore how bloody exhausted you look. It has been about a month of this nonsense. That’s a long time to feel tired and sore.

There is a new addition to jungle life. Luca (new name) is a street puppy that wandered into our friends’ restaurant in Lo De Marcos. Distressed to find that it was a vegetarian place he made the best of a bad job by adopting Jake. They are now inseparable mates. Sometimes the levels of cute became nauseating but we are getting used to it.

So Christmas somehow sneaked up on us again. The only festive effort we undertook was for Jayne to make a Christmas cake. This required particular effort as things like candied peel (why?), glacé cherries and molasses are not things that Mexicans recognise and certainly don’t sell. So we arranged for friends to travel from Canada and stay with us for a month to help with our building project and importantly smuggle us in some molasses and something revolting but essential called Swedish Berries??

Jayne finds the time and motivation from somewhere to make her own peel (why?) and cherries. The cake is made. I have never really been a great fan of Christmas Cake. The addition of candied peel (why?) is a mystery to me. This cake, it has to be said, turned out rather well. It needed the traditional Yorkshire touch of a block of strong cheddar cheese to go with it but it worked! So that was Christmas done. Apart from about a hundred friends new and old descending on us for our now traditional pot luck feast, jungle white elephant and after party till late.

We wish you a splendid New Year.

May 2023 bring you everything you need and something to share .

Jungle Journal

A Hurricane, Scorpion Fun & Dead People.

November 8, 2022November 8, 2022
by Beave

Our stress about the lack of rain and delight about the lack of weather related destruction this year comes to an end. Hurricane Orlean thankfully missed us but was soon followed by Roslyn. She started as a tropical storm but gathered guts as she moved slowly up the coast and hit land a little North of us as a category 4 hurricane.

It starts raining about midnight but at 4 am we are woken by earth shaking thunder. The rain becomes thick, heavy and loud. The canopy lights up as the lightening hits close and often. There are distinctive noises echoing through the jungle. It sounds like fireworks but we recognised the now familiar noise. This is the unique sound of tree trunks slowly announcing they are splitting apart before they fall. Our treehouse is safe although there is now a river flowing underneath. The road down to the gate is effectively a waterfall.

Our friend Emma is staying with us as she looks for a less jungly and more permanent home in town. My son Jake has also bailed on the UK and moved back here in search of a healthier and less financially stressy existence. We have had intermittent issues with internet so have invested in walkie talkies to make communications easier between the four of us.

It’s 4.30 am when we hear from Emma. The plastic sheet that we attached to her roof in anticipation of a few minor leaks has blown off. After being dripped upon and hearing the trees fall very close by she is now huddled in the brick shit house toilet/shower block. Her cabaña is surrounded by huge trees. The concrete roof gives her the best chance of staying dry and not getting squashed. The rain is coming down in dramatic amounts.

I throw on a rain poncho and grab a rather fetching pink flowery umbrella and brave the downpour. Somehow I negotiate the highly slippery stone waterfall and arrive to the rescue. She is dry and unsquashed but forced to share this small space with her precious computer bag and at least one snake who is also avoiding getting drowned. Before we both brave the journey back to the treehouse I try and get to see how Jake is faring but the front road is now a raging impassable river and the path to his place is completely blocked with a thick ten foot wall of branches and thorns. He is on his own for now. We are all completely cut off.

There is little sleep achieved and so after the rain subdues and I imbibe the appropriate amount of tea I sharpen a machete and head out to assess the situation. It is surprisingly easy to take the upper path to the solar panels that we assumed would be wrecked. This is good news as I am able to check in with Jake who is suitably stunned by events but safe. The river is still too high to cross but from the gate we can see that it has diverted down our access road which now is earth free and looks like a lunar rock fall. That is going to be an issue for sure.

I double back to approach the blocked path from the opposite direction. Within 20 yards is the first downed tree. A huge Copomo previously over a hundred feet high. It’s a lot of wood. It is perched upon an even taller palm tree that it has snapped in half on the way down. I can get underneath it easily. Then another. An even larger Copomo with two huge twin trunks. One I can also get under and the other I can climb over. I am then confronted by the wall of debris. It’s a dozen feet deep and thickly entangled. It takes about an hour to cut my way through.

It is with some relief that after waiting for the first river to drop we are able to make it to town. Our belovedly robust yellow submarine Toyota FJ somehow rock hops over the crevasses, roots and large stones and makes it to the biggest river. Jake and I spend an hour getting wet and avoiding getting washed away. We move all the newly deposited heavy river rocks out the way and take down lumps of overhanging tree to make a suitable path across.

Despite being theoretically able to, we avoid bashing up the FJ negotiating the road and stay put for many days until we can get a machine in to fix things. It has not rained once since the hurricane so we assume the rainy season is over and we can begin the process of repair and preparation for a long dry season.

Irritatingly our internet is out again and this time they have the hurricane excuse so it’s a full week offline. Three out of the four of us require internet to make a living so all impose ourselves daily on our delightful neighbour (she has way more sky than us so has starlink to steal). Her generous and patient nature is fully tested.

Our apiarist mate in town calls us to see if we have a spare bee hive. He has a colony that needs a home. We explain that the lightening appears to have driven off all our bees so he can help himself. We should have three empty highly desirable jungle hives to chose from. We are not correct. We meet him on his way back from installing the new bee home. Unexpectedly he found two fully occupied hives and only one empty. The incumbents were not delighted to see him and were apparently “bloody aggressive” Despite being a highly experienced bee bloke and being in full protective suit he did not want to hang around. We have been warned.

We are very lucky to have a highly organized and effective system in our small town for recycling and rubbish collection. It is the very best I have ever seen anywhere. There are regular collection spots on the roads around town where there are cages to collect plastic, cardboard, glass and aluminum recycling and big blue bins to accept the rest. We only have to bag up our stuff and drop them off. Collections are regular and it is a relatively clean and stink free process.

Jungle rubbish builds up slowly. Most of our food waste ends up directly in the jungle or compost. Most of the rest is recyclable so the garbage can spend weeks in place before it is removed. This attracts a number of interested visitors. Emptying bins is always a fully disgusting process. Maggots and massive grubs make it a living moving mass of part digested horror goop. The smell is memorable.

I prepare myself with gloves and gin to make the monthly run into town. I am confused by my inability to remove the black bin liner from the large black plastic bin. Somehow the rains from the hurricane have found a way in and created a very heavy bin liner full of a grotesque fermented elixir. I am more terrified than curious so leave the bag tied and sealed. By tipping the bin over on its side while applying a lot of force I manage to dangle the corner of the full bag over the balcony outside the front door. I use a knife to cut the corner off and allow the juice to pour out. The smell is neck snappingly foul beyond description.

Jayne’s online work meeting is interrupted by involuntary gagging. Our mosquito mesh windows do not prevent the noxious fumes filling the treehouse. Half a dozen incense sticks lit in a blind panic add a thick perfumed sweetness to the mix which doesn’t help much.

I struggle to maneuverer the offending bag into another and seal it tight. I drag the whole thing down the stairs but it’s clear that everything within is sodden with garbagy maggoty soup. I throw it into the Ranger bed and push a machete through the bottom to allow it to drain properly and dry out. I move myself far enough away so I can breathe without throwing up. It’s confusingly a lot further away than I thought. I realise that in this process some of this unspeakable smelling juice has ended up on me ! I unfortunately can’t get away from me. I stink. I hold my breath to prevent throwing up as I march quickly and directly to the shower.

Our jungle fleet is now down to a single operational vehicle. After its extreme 4×4 adventures the FJ requires work on its suspension but is working and getting us all where we need to be. Long may that continue.

The Ranger runs (sorta kinda ) but the little sugar lump is still unable to cope with driving through water and as we have five rivers flowing between us and our town right now so it’s not useful. Thankfully we have lovely mules coming down from the USA now in Mexico) who have with them a bag of highly useful parts that should help us.

The Razor has been stuck in place and effectively disassembled for months now. Our newly enthusiastic mechanics who promised to get her going again ran out of enthusiasm. Finally after weeks of heavy nagging they turned up to put the thing together again and it’s running. It sounds like a bag of rusty spanners but it’s running. With luck our latest mechanics will have both Ranger and Razor back on form again in the next few weeks. That will be a massive relief.

Complacency is not the best. Having been here for five years and avoiding getting stung by any of the numerous scorpions I share a home with has made me a little complacent. I have bemoaned on many occasions the irritation of tick bites, the various paralysis by spider venom and annoying stings from bees and hornets. I will never forget the pain of a manta ray tail or my head wrapped with the tentacles of a jelly fish. I can, however, now attest that none of these compares to a proper going over by a scorpion.

It’s 11.30 at night. I’m close to our bed and very suddenly there is a pain on the side of my foot. The intensity of the pain takes me entirely by surprise. I sit on the bed and swear eloquently. I have been attacked and my first reaction is to retaliate. This has to be a scorpion. I increase the swearing and launch myself towards where I suspect the little twat is hiding. I am correct. As soon as my injured foot hits the ground she stings me again. The first must have been a warning to keep away. This one must be the “I told you so” shot. Somehow the pain intensity is greatly magnified and takes my breath away. I return to the bed feeling stupid and defeated. She is nowhere to be found and I have lost the will or the energy to find her. I am totally distracted by the pain.

It is impossible to tell where exactly I have been stung. My lower leg and foot feel like they are in a fire. There is irritatingly nothing to see. It’s tough for me to talk but increasingly foul swearing remains easy. I can feel the toxins moving up the back of my leg. That is not a good feeling. It does not improve. After ten minutes the pain is worse. The strange burning sensation has moved over my bits and up my back. My jaw feels tight. My lips are numb. My hands are buzzing. My vision has new sparkly bits added. It is decided that it might be a fair idea to go to the hospital to acquire some anti-venom.

The journey into town is a trip. I’m not quite in my right mind. I’m not fully hallucinating but my whole body is tingling strongly in waves. The incredible unaltering pain is preventing me enjoying myself. I arrive at the hospital and a relaxed staff nurse smiles at me and diagnoses scorpion toxicity immediately. I am guided into the A&E area where a young boy and his mother are sitting on the only gurney. He smiles at me and looks concerned when he is told I have been hit by a scorpion. He has also been stung! He is calm and holds his mother’s hand as he smiles at me and walks away. I slump down. The pain is stunning. No let up at all.

Our relaxed staff nurse looks at me. He has limited professional sympathy. I have a line put into my hand and anti-venom is applied. Pathetic noises are coming out of me as the pain gets unbearable. In my mind they are soft and gentle moans but I am corrected. Apparently they are irritating and the very ill people that surround me are unimpressed. I am unhelpfully reminded that I am clearly not as brave as the little boy. I am also cheerfully told that although it can last up to 24 hours there will be no pain relief as they need to assess my condition. Everyone (else) laughs out loud. I manage a weak smile and some better repressed moans.

As soon as it is decided that the anti-venom has slowed my demise I am released back to the world. I am off my face but that is expected apparently. The full pain experience lasts for four hours straight. When it reduces to moderate agony I can relax a little. A few medicinal whiskies and I collapse. By morning the pain has gone entirely. As well as all feeling in my foot. I cannot feel any of my toes . Nothing at all. It’s very odd. It is common for this numbness to last at least a month, I am told, so I better get used to it.

The following day I arrive at my dentist for root canal work. Compared to the previous night it is a breeze. Almost enjoyable. What is strange is to have the left side of my head numb from anesthetic and my right foot numb from toxin. I now have a strangely disturbing creepy smile and a limp.

A period of goldilocks weather (not too hot, not too cold) is upon us. No more rain. Barely filled rivers drying up already. This is remarkably early but none the less welcome for the short term. The tropics is an area of the world where climate has been broadly predictable. This is clearly changing.

We take advantage of the surprisingly breathable air and lack of rain and head out to a rather remarkable stretch of river that runs through untamed jungle. By following the ancient pathway and bouncing across the river boulders we arrive at a stunning waterfall with pools to soak in. The unique attraction of this spot is the abundance of 4000 year old graffiti carved into the rocks faces. These petroglyphs are world famous. The region was originally home to the Tequectequi native culture dating from approximately 2000 BC to 2300 BCE. The site remains sacred for the Huicholes who still leave offerings and perform ceremonies here. It’s a very special place.

The new house is looking better and better. Our beautiful section of rammed earth floor is drying out slowly and awaiting the addition of linseed oil to toughen it up. The clay wall is awaiting a layer of cactus juice to smooth it out and offer a little protection. It is looking excellent already. Our wattle and daub upper sections still await our round windows to be added. The latest delivery promise for windows is ”sometime next week for sure”. So we have no idea but are hopeful it will happen this month. We are very much looking forward to seeing the kitchen, upper balcony and our impressive bespoke parota doors all complete with windows.

Our kitchen is done. Our stunning quartz worktops expertly installed. Our superbly crafted cabinets completed. Our sink and sexy tap in place. The new oven cut in. It all looks so very very good.. The water is flowing too. Only one leak from a damaged fitting which was easy to fix.

Our expertly designed access stairs are done. Our fabulous bookcase is installed. We’re are few windows a desk and a bedroom away from being finished.

Halloween is celebrated by a fancy dress party at our friends’ house that they have expertly transformed into a haunted house for the night. There is a huge amount of effort made by so many. A friend and myself are slightly stuck for a suitable costume until we realise that the we both have a striking resemblance to our host. Pam is a tall , slim very attractive blond so we shouldn’t have to make too much of an effort.

Day of the Dead November 1^st is the day to celebrate with children who have died. November 2^nd is for adults. It’s a time for celebrating with the dead. To interact with them. Large Mexican families visit the highly decorated cemeteries to spend time with loved ones. Separate to the graves are alters . They are adorned with marigolds, food, salt, incense, photographs and elaborate artistic collages of beans and sand. At midnight we join a procession of hundreds which arrives at the cemetery in Sayulita to huge loud fireworks, and a Mariachi band playing traditional folk music. The locals sing along to every word. Graves have marigolds, photos and candles. Most have families sharing food and tequila.

In the evening we watch sunset on the beach along with a band of a hundred stylishly coordinated drummers from around the world who unite to synchronise and celebrate. We eat great tacos and return to the jungle where we have created our own alter. We light candles and incense and connect peacefully with the people we have lost. It’s emotional.

Jungle Journal

Summer Lovin

October 7, 2022October 7, 2022
by Beave

We have been jungle dwellers now for five years. It is long enough for it to be not so easy to remember life when we were living in a more conventional house and had somewhat more normal jobs and lives. We decide to mark the occasion by leaving Mexico and experiencing other things for a while. Jayne has essential purple stuck in her hair and we are ready.

Our plan is to visit Jayne’s entire family who have all arranged to be in Vancouver from where we are to embark on a week long voyage aboard an unfeasibly vast cruise ship around Alaska. After this we will travel to San Francisco to stay with our good friends and assist each other to go to Nevada. We are again to be part of the vast crew who construct, participate in and pack up the Burning Man event in the harsh remoteness of the Nevada high plains desert.

So after a week of food, family, intensely beautiful Alaskan green nature & all the weather that goes with it we find ourselves in the salt and dust and intense heat of the Black Rock desert for nearly three weeks. As uniquely surreal an experience as Burning Man clearly is we had our hands full this time. The temperatures during the day were ridiculous and the dust storms were severe and frequent. Nothing much knocks the energy out of you quicker than overheating with lungs and eyes full dust. Except maybe Covid. Which we both contracted again. It was definitely harsh but also remarkable. (photos borrowed from various sources including the amazing John Curley & Erica)

So after a long six weeks away we are back home. Our good friend stayed in our treehouse to make sure the cats didn’t eat all the jungle beasts while he worked on our new house. He happens to be a Master Carpenter and is producing high quality bespoke cabinets, drawers, doors, steps and Jayne’s sexy parota desk.

In our absence the wattle and daub upper walls are complete and await large round windows that we have commissioned. Cabinet frames are completed so we can bring in the marmolero who is the craftsman who can cut and install our slice of Italian mountain into sexy quartzy countertops. The front doors are built and need to dry out while awaiting windows. We have the final layers to complete on our earth walls and floor. We also need to complete all the other window installations and our specialist Tadelakt finish in the shower……and then we only need to build our bed and move in. We are getting there.

In the meantime the jungle is offering us just enough challenges to keep things interesting. This time of year you can actually see the vines growing and without attention the bush grows six feet high and takes over everything surprisingly quickly. It took a few hours of macheting to make it possible to move around the land freely again. In the process I managed to disturb a few unreasonably grumpy hornets that took exception to being hacked. They decided to dissuade me by stinging my head a number of times. It’s an effective strategy. I immediately return, chastised, to the treehouse via the newly cleared pathways with a dull machete and a throbbing head.

We are preparing very slowly for our day when we notice a commotion in the treehouse. It feels like the cats are racing around crashing into things and making the sarongs that hang around the place move around. Confusingly the cats are motionless and quietly ignoring the world. This, we discover, is apparently the effect from a 7.6 magnitude earthquake 400 km away, 15 km under the sea. The predicted tsunami didn’t happen but the surfers loved it.

We are passing our front gate heading to town when we noticed a strange shape in the road. On further inspection it was the back end of what looked like a good size snake. It was thick and long and black and lifeless. No sign of damage but no sign of movement. This was exactly the same type of snake that scared the life out of me when it emerged from our pool full of frogs a few years ago. I was curious as to its size so I braced myself and took hold of the tail and pulled. The snake (ex-snake) that emerged was indeed a large specimen. Despite it being smaller than the one from the pool it was a good deal longer than I am tall and also shockingly heavy. Very glad I didn’t get to meet him when he was alive and hungry. I left the body next to the road on a large rock. This was not the best idea. A couple of days later the stench of rotting snake was overpowering !

The weather this year is highly unusual. There are rains nearly every night but the water in the rivers is only just flowing. Our well is currently full but if the aquifers are not fully restored this will not be good for our community. By this time last year I had replaced our road that was completely destroyed four times. This year there just hasn’t been anywhere near the amount of storms, tropical depressions or hurricanes. The past 24 hours, however, we have been hunkering down due to hurricane Orlene heading straight for San Pancho. Thankfully, for us, the grade 3 storm headed North and missed us. Our tropical jungle releases warm air out to sea that had the effect of diverting storms. Much as we can use the water we would rather not lose trees, roofs and roads at the same time.

Since our return we have, however, had some impressive thunder storms. Last week we had seven inches of rain in one night. The lightening hit very close to the treehouse and the resulting thunder claps shook our world. The result was that the lightning took out our well pump and also appears to have frightened off the bees again. We just installed our new replacement pump but, so far, no sign of the bees returning.

I am outside our local mini-store in town trying to get my keys to open the car door. This is not easy as I am carrying a collapsing box of groceries while balancing a drooping open tray of fresh eggs. Suddenly the sky falls in with the noise of a bomb. Twice. I instinctively duck down. The eggs do not. Somehow in an unrepeatable and instinctive display of juggling skills I catch them all before they egg-wash me. I had completely forgotten that it was the start of Saint Pancho days.

This is the infamous week where the patron saint of animals is celebrated by scaring the living shit out of every dog, cat, bird (and egg carrying human) in town by regularly setting off the loudest possible fire works for “religious reasons”. Further traditional celebrations in the town square (when it stopped raining) include dodgy roulette, shooting stalls manned by dogs, deadly fireworks, deafeningly awful live banda music, dancing horses and dozens of aspiring gymnast kids accompanied by their parents consuming jugs of harsh margaritas and a few hundred cans of Corona light.

The whole of the area has a different feel and look this year. The lack of water destruction is very welcome. In its place are acres of plants we haven’t seen before. There is a quick growing fine grass that produces bright yellow flowers that has carpeted large areas. Contrasting the yellow are swaths of stunning red fire blossoms. It’s a stunning look.

It is also, however, distracting. There are a number of golden web spiders that have suspended themselves from golden threads between trees and larger plants. These structural strands are strong like wire and if you are making your way through the jungle mesmerised by the pretty colours you will inevitably be clotheslined by them. Feeling (an admittedly very beautiful) golden strand hit your eyeball is unpleasant.

We are settling back in to our jungle routines. Jayne is back to working from her four poster office until her new desk is completed. I am preparing long list of jobs we need to do and accomplishing just enough of them to keep from being swamped.

We are rewarded by the extraordinary firefly show every night. It’s that time of year. A loose swarm of fireflies will flash their lanterns in their abdomens randomly. But when the swarm reaches a certain density, the fireflies begin to blink in unison. It is almost perfect synchronisation, with rhythmic, coordinated waves of light. We are so very lucky to be right in the heart of it. No plans to leave here again any time soon.

Jungle Journal

Blue Buttons, Bees & Froggy Nonsense

July 20, 2022July 20, 2022
by Beave

It may not surprise you to know it’s bloody hot here. There is, in fact, record breaking temperatures throughout Europe right now so we expect little or no sympathy. It is true that the UK is really not set up for hot weather – bless them. The whole country has been on red alert ‘threat to life” status. I remember how grossly uncomfortable it is in the UK’s air conditioning free cities, homes and offices even at 35 degrees. This week the UK has had over 40-degree heat for the first time ever! Despite me continually struggling along in a pool of hot sweat I will, therefore, attempt to take a short break from moaning about the temperature for a change.

One of the gifts of being close to the ocean is the chance get wet and float around on a whim. Most times of the year this is a refreshing change but during these hot times the water temperature is that of a warm bath. It was one such whim that did for me. I’m at the bar on the beach that we have named “the office”. It is often that we arrange an urgent meeting with friends at the office. The beer was cold but not cold enough so I decide to strip off and dive into the waves.

San Pancho waves are strong and mostly break quickly close to the beach. The trick is to get past the breaking waves to the calm water out back. This is often not as easy as it sounds. I negotiate the fast moving walls of water as best I can. Some I dive under, some I float over. It was at the top of a rising wave above water when from nowhere I get hit on the side of my head. My ear felt like it had been suddenly struck by something hard and hurty. My immediate thought was that I had been stung by a hornet. I remember how much that hurts but in retrospect that was not the smartest assumption (being in the ocean, a long way from any hornet nests). I instinctively dive deep under the waves to get away from any flying hazard and swim hard to get some distance between me and whatever that was. The side of my body suddenly hurts, a lot. My ear is stabbingly painful and the discomfort is now all around my head and neck. It is only then that I see them. All around me in the water are bright blue bubbles. Blue button Jelly fish!

I make my way out of the surf swearing warnings at the oblivious swimmers frolicking around me. There are lines on my body where the tentacles have wrapped themselves. My ear and neck feel on fire. At least one of the little buggers has clung to my head and the cnidocytes along their tentacles have released harpoon-like structures full of venom, called nematocysts all over me. These things are not fun. Back at the office, everyone has a helpful opinion about how to assist me. There are offers of soaking my ear in hot coffee. A couple of people enthusiastically suggest they pee on my head. I take the decision not to accept their kind offers and try my best to scrape off the tiny harpoons as best I can. It is a number of days before I can forget about my wounds and some weeks before the skin around my hairline settles down.

Although the rains have started and we are getting rainfall most nights, there hasn’t been a storm of any note so far. This is good news. Our access roads are passable and although the jungle is growing over us as fast as it can we are just ahead of the game. It takes at very least a full day of swinging machete a week just to hold the green stuff back. We, thankfully, have just the bloke to help us out with that. If he doesn’t turn up we are stuffed. Around the treehouse are a load of palm like plants that are shooting up. Some that have just appeared in the past few days are already many feet high. It’s a project!

The fireflies have arrived and that is always a blessing. There is a dozen or so clumsily crashing brightly around the mosquito net every night. They are staying close to the ground at the moment which makes walking around at night somewhat magical. The trees glisten and flash. The undergrowth sparkles like glitter.

The nights are scattered with rain and lightning and the occasional loud smash of thunder. The jungle orchestra is on full song and we get to drift off to the calming music of nature. If it wasn’t for the frogs!

This year the frogs have changed their game. Every year up to now we have had to endure listening to a rain fuelled frog orgy in our pool. It is usually a two-day, two-night affair. By then the frogs have kept us awake for 48 hours but have concluded their wild sex party duties or have died trying. This year they seem to be more aware of social distancing. Smaller groups (bubbles) are declining the mass orgy option and getting it on whenever the mood takes them. The result for us is weeks of nocturnal non concentual acoustic abuse. We don’t need to hear that. They are clearly having way too much fun.

Our bee neighbours have been confusing the hell out of us recently. Around six months ago I went to check on the bees and didn’t find any. We have three hives. All were active until they weren’t. One week we were down to two active hives and then only one. It is a disappointment that the last of the bees have decided to move on so we take advice from our wiser apiary mates who suggest we move the hives and try another spot.

The day comes and I have arranged to make a new sexy bee home area close to our solar panels which is more sunny and open. Should be a lot of pollen and water around so this seems a good move. I approach the first hive and immediately get stung! On closer inspection, the bees have decided to return and seem to be fully occupied and content making honey and stinging me. I abandon the relocation task for the time being. The following week the second hive somehow springs back to life. It is highly confusing but they seem happy enough. Our friend calls us and asks if we have a spot for a homeless queen and her cohorts that he has rescued from someone’s house. We now have three fully active and productive bee houses. Honey in our future again!

Our house in progress is looking remarkably like a house. The stunning boveda roof has been matched up with a palapa roof. This week our wood whisperers will be building the tapanko loft where we will sleep. There are stunning stairs, there is an outdoor/indoor bathroom, there are bright tiles and polished concrete floors. Our tasks now are to find tiles for the shower floor…. now. Lights for inside and out…. now. Decide on finishes and details … now. No pressure!

We are a week or so away from the builders completing all the buildy stuff. The electricians and plumbers are well on their way to finishing all the sparky and plumby stuff. We have ordered windows and doors. Our master carpenter friend is set to move into our place for August and apply his skills to the piles of Amapa and Parota wood we have had delivered. We have cabinets and stairs, a bed, wooden doors and other secret things planned. It is going to be an interesting few months turning this remarkable space we are creating into a fully functional home! It’s a splendid job. We are grateful for all the massive effort by so many to get to where we are.

There is the issue of water. The mornings these days are often cloudy and that severely restricts our ability to pump water up from the well and to our tinacos. Feeding the tinaco on the build site has been a mission and so keeping it topped up for the new house is going to be a challenge. The new water system we have is reliant on our large cistern which we built underneath the front porch. We have a rain catchment topping it up. All the water to the house will be treated by traditional filters and an Ultra Violet (UV) light disinfection unit that removes most forms of microbiological contamination from water. Our plan is to keep the cistern topped up by 10 000 litre pipa truck when the rains stop. This gives us the chance to use our high power water pump to back-fill our tinaco from the cistern if water is scarce. This is a huge bonus.

There is the issue of power. The Scorpion temple is a good distance from the treehouse and, we discover, over 250M away from our solar powered fuse box. There is no real way around it we need to run a conduit and a single 250M length of high quality, high grade cable from the box to the site. We manage to find the right cable and acquire a massive heavy reel of the stuff. Our chosen conduit is bright orange and corrugated. It comes in 50M rolls so we have six of those. All we have to do now is to mount the reel and lay and connect up all the conduit, find a way to run it all under the stone driveway and 250M through the jungle to the fuse box and thread 300M of twin cable through the whole thing. This is a day we will not forget in a hurry. My Covid recovery is frustratingly slow and I have been running on 30% power for some weeks. Add a bunch of extreme heat and humidity and it really adds to the fun. It is great news that Jayne is motivated and we have help from our mate from town. Somehow, we manage to get this all done in just six hours. It takes me three days to recover.

There is the issue of the fuse box. Our existing fuse box is far from weather proof and is now four years old. It looks a lot older than that. The wires to it have been pulled and tugged by jungle growth for years so it’s a janky box with over tight connections attached to a tree and protected from the elements by a plastic container that I cut up in a way to function as a rain cover. Our biggest issue is that the tree it was connected to fell over. The box was cast into the jungle but somehow still works. This is not a sustainable solution to our power needs. A new posh waterproof box is found and we mount it a few feet above the ground on plastic bug proof poles that we set into the jungle floor. We are desperate for power. It’s unbearably hot and humid and we don’t have any way of running a fan!! Jayne takes on the very frustratingly fiddly job of wiring the bugger up. Theoretically it should only take an hour or so but it is fully dark and I am lighting up the jungle with a torch before it is finally up and running. We retreat fully exhausted to the treehouse to shower and drink gallons of water and stare blankly and silently for a very long time. The feeling of satisfaction for a job well done will kick in later.