A Day At Casa Primo

Yes. Well, my first task of the day, as a houseguest at Casa Primo, was to get out of bed while it was still dark, creep down to the banana plantation, and, with the aid of a tiny muffled Maglite, check around the roots of the banana trees to see if the delivery from the mountain had yet been made by Clemente, the FedEx man. Had that been the case, much commotion would have ensued, but on this particular day to which I refer in my title no such hubbub awaited. The day stretched before us―calm, limpid, its silence broken only by the pneumatic protestations of the donkeys across the river, the remonstrations of roosters attempting to herd their hens into more bug-infested pastures, the Dopplar-enhanced symphony of many boom-boxes passing on the trail playing the indigenous lays and chansons of the region, the famous pack of Fifty Barking Dogs of Yelapa, and always one or another of the village caballeros shouting imprecations at his runaway horse while beating the air with his machete and screaming further curses at the pursuing schoolchildren vainly attempting to earn a few centimes by catching the fleeing animal.

But the day did not truly commence until the moment that Primo, emitting an acoustic band's worth of assorted sound effects (for that read Spike Jones or The Kinks), rose from his bed, scratched his head and then gave certain other areas of his body the same treatment, and almost instantaneously began the first of several Plans du Jour by which we were to occupy ourselves for the rest of the day. Had we―or shall I say I―but known, on this unforgettable occasion, what was to come, my natural sanguinity would have fled, and very possibly I would have fled with it. But at first there was no indication that the day would come to―what it did, with its agony of fear and trembling a la Kierkegaard. Or worse. I watched a flock of egrets swoop up and down the river like a great broom of white feathers, gazed wonderingly at Primo as he sat, sunk in thought as one of the great Rodin “Three Shades”, found my place in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and settled down to savor my tranquil existence. But I had neglected to remember what the Three Shades were contemplating in their pensive postures―it was the torments of hell that they pondered, the agonies of the damned.

(To Be Continued when Beth returns from a 2 week Yelapa sojourn)

An Aside

Donna looked at your site, and was suitably amazed. I don't know if she will contribute, but she did remind me that somewhat before both Nico and Matthew were born, Sara and Conrad had a little girl, Marina, who was born in Yelapa, summer of 1970. That time it was Esperanza who mid-wifed the birth.....Michael Robins

Story Contributed by Michael Robins

David Berlin is  not quite right. The first gringo kid I know of born in Yelapa was not Sunny Day, but Matthew, Jerry and Mary Beth's first, in 1971. I know this because my own son Nico was born in Vallarta a few months before, my wife Donna having decided it was too risky to stay in Yelapa. Sure enough, when Matthew came—aided by Peggy Mundel and Esperanza the midwife—a problem with the afterbirth occurred, so they sent for Donna late at night, because she had been an obstetric nurse. 

I stayed with our son, of course, sleeping in his mosquito-net-covered hanging cradle—at that time in the house of Ponciano, one of only two up and across the creek in the village—waiting for hours. I tried to stay calm, puffing a little weed but abstaining from raicilla, with a breast-fed infant liable to awaken hungry at any moment. Finally, she returned with the news that Mary Beth had insisted on waiting for nature to do the job without interference; on the next day we learned that it had emerged at last and all was well. I've never been able to decide whether Mary Beth was courageous or foolhardy. Perhaps both.

Leapin' Lizards

We were all gathered at a Valentine party on top of the hill at Karina's folks' house which I had rented one winter. Everyone was laughing, talking, eating and entertaining themselves however they might. Lots of delicious food, a little tequila and raicilla goes without saying and maybe a little something to smoke.

Suddenly we heard a rustle in the tall palm in front of us and watched with unbelieving eyes as a large iguana fell from the tree and plopped onto the ground way below. It was a long fall as our collective eyes followed the lizard in slow-motion as it twisted in mid-air and disappeared from our view. We all sat quietly for a moment and then burst into laughter bonding in the knowledge that not everything was perfect in the jungle after all. 

Crossed Stars

I was a few hours away from living on the trail. The casa I had rented was still not empty. Someone named DeeAnna was living there and NOT leaving on time. I was getting very frustrated as I waited impatiently for this princess to get o-u-t of my next living space. Finally, I heard she was going in an hour and I found myself face to face and being introduced at Chico's on the main beach. She looked up at me with those knowing eyes of hers and casually greeted me. I could hardly wait to see her leave! Nothing personal, mind you, I just wanted to move in to the house. That was our first meeting and subsequently, we met again the following year and became best friends. She later told me that she thought I had dark energy and mentioned this to Isabel. She wasn't sure about me but Isabel assured her that I was just fine. I guess my vibe about trail sleeping was too negative and Dee picked up on that. 

In this photo Dee is painting one of her famous colorful T-shirts. DeeAnna of Yelapa had figured out a way to survive in Mexico and sold them at Rita Tillet's Gallery Shop and venues in PV. You might even have one of those originals tucked away somewhere. Today DeeAnn is a well-known artist living and working in Santa Cruz and still one of my closest friends. Visit her website at www.dhooker.com .

True Stories

Sometimes there isn't much to do in a small town. Yelapa in the 70's was a lot like a rural village anywhere in the world. I should know as I was raised in Nebraska. For the gringo residents, and we thought of ourselves that way even though we were just tourists who had stayed, we were constantly looking for fun and something unusual to do. Some days just had more hours than others.

There was no electricity, just a restaurant or two on the beach, and how many times could one walk to the waterfall? Two boats, the Paladin and Sombrero, came most days from PV like circus boats bouncing and weaving their way across the Bay, OOM PAH PAH OOM PAH PAH  speakers blaring loudly across the sea. They arrived relentlessly on schedule with fresh recruits for our little practical jokes. This day I believe it was the Sombrero.

“Hey, let's go!” Peggy B. encouraged us, “it's almost canoa time at the beach.” As a habit we would arrive and plunk ourselves down in the sand right in front of the spot that was used by the boatmen to unload tourists. There were NO piers. As each boatload of newbies reached shore, they would stare ahead, mouths agape, not sure what to do with their high heels or nicely tied leather shoes. “Jump! Jump!” the canoa guys had learned to shout in English. The shocked tourists would fall into the water like sausages in a boil. Some would just get feet wet and a few would lose their balance and topple into the waves. We thought this was hilarious. When I think back to these times, I can't say I'm proud of our actions and we probably looked every bit as silly as these folks getting out of our first canoa in a big wave. Yet, a laugh was a laugh and there we were taking advantage of someone else's foibles to get one.

Sooner or later, this activity got a little boring, too. One day a new friend, Bongo Dick, often folks with more common names must be given an identifier of some sort, and Peggy B., the Canadian party girl and myself decided to play a little joke on the tourists. Nothing like entertaining yourself in the jungle.

It was to be a threesome; a couple who had come to visit Yelapa with a philandering husband who just met a new island lovely. Peggy and Bongo took the parts of husband and wife and I was to play the charming beach girl. “I have to go to PV today anyway,” Peg offered, so, we prepared for our great drama to unfold and take place on the open sea. Bongo dressed in his finest shorts and sport jacket and arrived at the beach carrying a suitcase. The couple waited in line to board the big boat. “You, bastard!” Peggy screamed for all to hear, “I saw you flirting with that gringo slut on the beach, I hate you!” Everyone turned and looked at them while trying to look aloof, but completely engrossed in the unfolding personal drama.

“Honey, it's nothing, really, she was just trying to sell me a necklace,” he explained, “look, I bought it for you.” The fake wife slapped his hand backwards and the necklace of shells flew across the sand. 

“Why, don't you just stay in this disgusting place with your new little bimbo, you perve,” her mouth squirmed in an ugly shape. 

Everyone watched but dared not interfere. Finally, once on the boat, the fighting couple apparently escalated the argument, when suddenly, the husband, Bongo Dick threw his empty suitcase overboard and leapt to the top of the rail and jumped! From shore, this was my cue. As the jilting new lover I came running, waving and throwing kisses to my new love as he swam back to shore to live happily ever after....

We watched the entire boat of tourists move to the leeward side when Bongo jumped overboard fully clothed. They had fallen for our dramatic performance hook, line and sinker. All of us were delirious from laughter and when he reached shore in his soggy suit grinning from ear to ear, I ran to his arms. We embraced and kissed passionately and waved Peggy on to her ride to town. Mission accomplished and entertained for another day.