Friday, January 20, 2012

Getting Laid Back, Mexican Style


Yelapa, Mexico isn't an island although it might as well be. Tucked in to a protected cove about an hour south of Puerto Vallarta, it is – for most normal folks – only reachable by water taxi. Technically, you can get there overland, but that would take the courage (or, more likely, insanity) of a dirt bike or the heartiness of an avid and intrepid hiker to traverse the steep and wildly verdant hills that surround it away from the water. But, as we shall see, Yelapa is more than just a boat ride away from Puerto Vallarta; it's decades away. As P.V. is awash in high rises, Starbucks, and a jumble of high octane traffic patterns, Yelapa is – how you say – as distant in character as Neptune is from New York.

We began our journey on the shores of Boca de Tomatlan, a sleepy village with steep cobblestoned streets. It was here that we intentionally awaited our water taxi long enough to enjoy a beachside treat of octopus (pulpo) empanadas and a nifty seafood salad of shrimp, octopus, and avocado that had a freshness that could only come from a concoction created a moment before we devoured it. The water taxi was not much more than an oversized rowboat, if you ask me, but one with a surprisingly hefty outboard that would throw up rooster tails that might be the envy of many a jetskier. Along the way, we pass jungle worthy terrain and the entertaining sight of pelicans perched on idle boats, a man-made respite from the rolling surf. Forty-five minutes later, we landed on the beach at Yelapa and jumped into ankle deep water. I really don't think I had ever had the experience before of dragging my rolling bag through the sand, but that was the only option to getting the bag to our hotel, the Lagunita.

At the hotel reception, a small and preposterously unpretentious outcropping, we meet Luke, the hotel's owner. Luke, like may here, is an ex-pat. He is from the Chelsea section of New York, and is as charming as he is laid back, and he is very laid back. Luke gives me the big picture of Yelapa and I have this sense that he is always just moments away from a yawn. In addition, I can't get out of my head how his hooded eyes remind me way too much of Javier Bardem's in “No Country for Old Men.” He gives us our room key, instructions on where to refill our water bottles, and an invitation to breathe slowly and deeply. Our room – our pelapa – is a bungalow about 7 feet from the beach with a thatched, and very high, vaulted ceiling and “windows” that have no glass, just some more thatching that serves as openings to the world, both in terms of climate and animal life, that can come and go as they wish. Our bathroom is tiled with rounded ceilings and an oddly attractive mottled paint job that might well have been done by Jimmy Hendrix in the days before he hit the big time. At night, all that separates you from the outside world is a simple hook to keep the door closed, not what you would normally find, say, in New York.

The bar and the restaurant are in the sand. What we find there is a fabulous assortment of seafood salads, ceviche, guacamole, burritos, enchiladas, fish tacos and a good bit more. And, of course, the Pacifico beer, margaritas, tequila shots and – my personal favorite – the Cuban rums. The sand is very tactile to the touch – a natural exfoliant.

It would be a shame not to share this grand escape with others, and we have done that. We are joined by Jesse and Laura on the lam from Denver and the daily dosing of stress and grind in their lives. They're ready. They meet us a few hours after we arrive, and the party begins.

As P.V. is of modern times, Yelapa is most defintely third world. No streets as such, just walkways. No cars, no banks, no ATMs. Our room at the Lagunita brandishes no TV or phone. Ah, but there is wi-fi, at least if you locate yourself within ten feet of the hotel office. As tourist meccas go, this one is one step above primal. When we walk through town, we are met by quaintness and unadorned local flavor: there is far more hanging laundry than souvenir shops, far more kids playing with homemade toys than glitzy boutiques. There are a few restaurants and a disco, but not the sort that would attract the Michelin Guide. Credit card usage is rare enough here that a few businesses advertise their openness to this form of mercantile behavior as if it's a novelty. As you venture away from the shoreline, you get a grip on how steep the environment is. The paths work their way upward, sharply. At the end of one is a waterfall high and scenic with a pool of clear and cold mountain water. Jesse dives in and gets the full treatment as the fall's pounding onslaught massages his head and shoulders.

There really isn't much to do here other than what Luke advertised: the opportunity for deep breathing and relaxation. A Canadian group from the Yukon we run across at the hotel is there for a week of yoga and, after a fashion, dancing. Amusingly, the signs for dogs to be on leashes is totally ignored as mongrels of a thousand sorts roam the beaches, often playing with each other in the ocean shallows. Horses appear on the beach. Paragliders sometimes appear. For mortals like us, we find contentment in our beach reading, our raucous hearts games, speed scrabble, and dips in the cenote-styled pool which hangs over the ocean like the best of infinity pools.

A person could get used to this, no?

No comments:

Post a Comment