Blog - La Colina Project

A Dream Gift & High Tide Burn

June 30, 2021June 30, 2021
by Beave

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Credit : John Curley

Jungle Journal

Hot Bees, Fire and Water.

June 4, 2021June 4, 2021
by Beave

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo credit: John Curley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungle Journal

Slow Roads, Poo Smells & a Melty Tree

May 3, 2021May 3, 2021
by Beave

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungle Journal

Pig pits, mouse hunts & a banana injury.

March 11, 2021March 11, 2021
by Beave

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungle Journal

Killing Thyme with a possum.

February 3, 2021February 3, 2021
by Beave

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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