I could manipulate time with my eyes. By shifting my eyes, the water slowly spills and falls. I shift my eyes again and the water jumps to the rocks. I'm watching my third waterfall today, but this time it's in Yelapa. The foaming white adds to the shine of worn rocks, and my eyes find the moss within the waterfall. When the water hits the moss they fuse for a second and I imagine that it smells like mint. La cascada - the waterfall; isolated by a gang of tired rocks.
Yelapa is practically it's own island, separate from Puerto Vallarta. Granted, it's still attached, but everything comes in by boat. Puerto Vallarta is owned by Coke, like most of Mexico, but Yelapa is different. There aren't giant red and white umbrellas shading dirty white beach chairs in Yelapa. It's essentially a cove town, it's self-contained. Coke doesn't lay claim to this mini-island - Pepsi does. The blue umbrellas are faded beachside as the waves get bigger, growing and threatening.
The waves withdraw, lingering on the granules of sand, and then heave themselves back. Growing and swelling, anxious and patient, waiting, waiting, waiting. They peak and begin to descend, advancing and arcing. The sun catches them as the tube collapses and crashes onto the beach. They have all exploded more hollow and deep than expected. Their scattered remnants hungrily slide towards shore, searching and relentless. Until the waves withdraw again.
Yelapa is to dogs what Puerto Vallarta is to cats. What Egypt once was to cats, but with a more abandoned air. There is more of a defeated acceptance than the worship once equated with cats. The dogs are sea-worn and ragged. They wander, contented with their hand to mouth existence.
The boat skips like a rock against humps of glassy fluid. Each time the hull beats down, slapping the water, it bounces twice. Chanting a mental mantra to the rhythm of the boat is easy and smooth. Two more BAM Days left BAM Two more BAM Days left BAM. Until the boat scrapes against the yellow sanded shore, all I can think is two more days left.
i went to mexico over the summer. i knew there was some hidden poetic value in that hellhole of a vacation.
