Last year I wrote about a trip to Yelapa, Mexico. I poked fun at my unreasonable fear of cartels, which was replaced with a much more reasonable fear of scorpions. That trip ended up so idyllic, so magical, that in January of this year we went back.
Last year’s concerns, however, ended up prophetic.
All the way south to Mexico, Karma, Murphy, or some other folk deity was trying to hint at the possibility the trip might let us down.
There was nothing catastrophic, mind you, just weird. The taxi ride to our layover hotel was alarmingly long, like we’d been kidnapped. We sat on the tarmac in Puerto Vallarta (PV) for two hours after we arrived because there were no available gates. The luggage belt in the PV airport broke. The PV airport exit was so crowded, and nerves so frayed, an accidental bump of a walker against a wheel chair led to the brink of a geriatric throw down.
Yet we didn’t think of it as a message from the travel gods to turn around, we just chalked it up to the vagaries of travel. We’re Alaskans, after all; we can deal with a few smudges on the itinerary. We ignored the signs.
The gods were not pleased.
Laugh if you must, but on these sorts of trips I’m the muscle. There are some latent peasant genetics I use to carry, lug, toss, hoist, heave, lift, and lower bags from various modes of transport to another. We had the large duffel, the kids’ bags, my bag, Denise’s bag and the computer bag. From home to airport, airport to layover hotel, layover hotel to destination airport, destination airport to water taxi, and water taxi to the final drop off on a beach, we were able to keep track of the bags. It was from the beach drop off to the casa, however, where I failed. Somewhere in ferrying spouse, children, and bags to dry ground…I left the computer bag.
The next day, despite mourning the loss of the computer bag, we prepared for our oldest daughter’s tenth birthday. We ordered a kilogram’s worth of chocolate cake from a local baker, and invited the property owner, manager, and some Kansas-based tourists with kids to the party. (I made sure there were plenty of limes and tequila for the adults). Our oldest daughter’s special day was set.
The morning of Carmen’s 10th birthday, I slept in; a rare and lovely luxury the gods soon punished. There was a scream. That’s never good. It’s never good to wake up to a scream.
A scorpion had stung our youngest, Siena. Apparently the scorpion had climbed into her shirt during the night. Siena was pulling the shirt off when, just as she was flinging the shirt away, the little bugger nailed her on the thumb.
I should note here our casa was a pelapa. The place was three stories, open air, no windows, with netted beds, hammocks, and lovely views of the ocean. The back of the pelapa was open to the jungle. The kitchen had a small gas oven and range, a refrigerator, a food box, and water. You had to keep the food in the fridge or the food box or the local fauna would eat your grapefruit. We also had a house cat to keep the varmints out – except, sadly, scorpions.
Blearily trying to make sense of the screaming, I too began screaming for everyone to calm down – a technique of dubious efficacy.
I proceeded to calmly page through the “Welcome to Yelapa!” three ringed binder helpfully provided to guests. I was looking for the first aid page for proper scorpion treatment etiquette while bedlam reigned. Fortunately the property manager, David, heard the hubbub and came over. Through his broken English and Denise’s broken Spanish, he figured out the situation, dropped everything, and took off with Denise and Siena to the local clinic. When I looked up from the binder, they were gone.
Carmen and I huffed our way the mile and a half through town to the clinic, arriving about five minutes after Siena, Denise, and David. A doctor was already tending to Siena. She would end up with an IV, a dose of antivenom, and a liter of saline.
It took a bit more than an hour for the saline to empty into Siena’s little body. She was miserable in the clinic. But after we left, Siena ate some candy, had a little walk, and was playing in the surf by afternoon. Her IV hand was swollen, so she’d waive her hefty fist around yelling “Siena Smash!” Kids are blessedly quick healers.
(Yelapa must have more shamanic healers per capita than anywhere on the planet. Whenever some hippie would hear of Siena’s scorpion sting, they would exclaim, “Oh! I am a shamanic healer…scorpions are a very powerful medicine. You must be good with animals.” And Siena would respond in her typical nonchalant monotone, “Yeah. I am good with animals.”)
Not long after the scorpion incident, I came down with stomach issues that kept me off food for three days. I call it the Mexi-slim diet. I lost ten pounds and my pants fit better than they had for a year.
Then there was the rogue wave.
I was walking the girls into town for breakfast. (After all, I was able to eat again). Getting to town required threading a path between the high tide line and a retaining wall beneath the rental pelapas. For the entire week this path had been relatively dry path and no problem to navigate except to dodge some skittering crabs. But that morning the tide was up and the waves large. Seeing this, I tried to time our progression between breaking waves. Like they say, life is all about timing.
A very large wave, seemingly out of nowhere, slammed us. I was able to keep my footing and held onto Siena tight. I looked behind me and Carmen was high enough to negotiate the water. Siena, on the other hand, lost her footing, and but for my grip, would have been pulled into the jumble of boulders below the breakers. The waters did claim my daughter’s newly bought sandals, pulling them off her feet and out to sea.
I truly hope those sandals don’t choke a turtle.
It’s important at this point to note the trip was actually a good one. Siena recovered. Carmen eventually recovered, too — from the disappointment of having a scorpion attack her sister on her birthday. We got the computer bag back; the boat driver gave it to his mom who lived in Yelapa and she had it stored under her easy chair. We swam. We splayed out on the beach. We ate cheap tasty food. We hiked. We took Spanish lessons. Really, in the big picture, the trip was fantastic.
But while contemplating turtle mortality, I confessed to the travel gods: I’m tired of this place trying to kill my family. I need a hotel. I need a nice clean hotel … doused in pesticides, with lifeguards, filtered water, and color saturated frozen fruit drinks. ‘Murica.
At breakfast, the gods took pity and allowed me to make a reservation for a room at the Puerto Vallarta Marriot over a weak and intermittent wifi. And at that Marriot, our unchallenged bodies and minds blissfully atrophied over the remainder of our trip – no scorpions, no stomach bugs, but plenty of strawberry daiquiris. It was delightful.
(By the way, David received many “gracias’ from the family, a hand written note signed by the family, and a very, very, large tip).
Clint J. Farr can be reached at cjfarr@hotmail.com.
Read the first article, “You’ll love a… Yelapa!” here: http://juneauempire.com/art/2015-03-11-0
Yelapa/ Puerto Vallarta Resources
Yelapa Concierge Services: http://www.yelapaconnexion.com.
Our pelapa casa: http://www.yelapafun.com/.
Puerto Vallarta Marriot: http://www.marriott.com/hotels/travel/pvrmx-casamagna-marriott-puerto-vallarta-resort-and-spa.
What a way to relax.
A scorpion served as quite the wake-up call for one member of the Farr family.
