Tipsy Abroad: Yelapa Edition

by Jay

I stumbled across the thin strip of beach between the laguna and the ocean. Walking in Yelapa at night posed many challenges, not the least of which was the margarita I’d already had. But that night, I was also contending with the threat of scorpions, wading through still water, clenching a penlight in my teeth, and a big plastic bag wrapped around me.

I was heading to a costume party. I’d thought it was a joke at first, but no- in the middle of the Mexican nowhere, I was really going to a costume party. An artist-comrade grabbed a clear plastic bag and ripped a hole for my head. He decorated my plastic-wrapped body with quickly drawn kings and fish. “Don’t smudge,” he warned. I stood carefully, waiting for the sketches to dry. I didn’t know what exactly I was supposed to be, but that was irrelevant.

We made our way down the stone steps from the borrowed palapa towards the beach, keeping our eyes and penlights closely linked for potential scorpions. Once safely down, the phosphorescent specks in the sand gave the beach an eerie glow. I lifted my skirt and plastic carefully – don’t smudge! – to wade through the sweet water that was trapped earlier in the day from the receding tide. Later, I’d have to spray down my body to make sure nothing toxic attached itself to me during the wade.

I got to the beach bar and surveyed my surroundings. Lang, drowned royalty himself, was propped up against the bar, draining his second bottle of liquor. He was wearing a linen suit, and his long, greasy hair was combed back into a ponytail. By torch light, he didn’t look half-bad; the puffy, alcohol-bloat was softened a bit and his pitted skin smoothed from its normal orange-peel texture. Lang was on a suicide mission and had a damned good start. He was American blue-blood, the direct descendant of a founding father, but his family had long since cut him off. He didn’t care. Once upon a time, he had built a beautiful palace perched high above the beach with an incredible vista of the jungles and water. It was, however, empty, because Lang’s denigrated body wouldn’t allow him to climb anywhere other than into his bed. He instead lived in a shack on the beach, wasting away in a dirty navy bathrobe, skin flaking off his ashy legs and yellowed eyes demanding more liquor. But that night, you might not get all that at first glance.

Lang’s girlfriend was already with him, and she was equally as drunk, a truly rare feat. Emelle was a seemingly sensible woman, so I never understood her attraction to someone bent on self-destruction. She leaned over sloppily to peck me on the cheek as I said hi. I’d met her in PV and was staying at her palapa for the weekend. This gave her a sense of entitlement with me, and she would say whatever came to mind, whether appropriate or not. She pointed to my small chest, hidden under the plastic and my black tank top. “S’a shame about those,” she said. “I know a good surgeon.” Since I was 25 years younger than her, I let her enjoy that. Her implants were the only part of her still perky.

A couple appeared decked out as Poseidon and a mermaid. I recognized them from Puerto Vallarta. They were married but not to each other, and each would leave their respective spouses for their annual month-long fling in Mexico. But after eleven months of long-distance pining, they’d fight by Day Two and spend the rest of the month alternately bickering, cheating, and making up. Tonight, they were on again, and she’d crammed her menopausal frame into a bustier and fishtail skirt. She held it well, considering, and Poseidon looked proud to be at her side until a younger, prettier model would catch his eye. The mermaid would glare at him angrily every time his attention strayed. She said hello to me and asked who I was. I’d never formally met her before and this felt quite intrusive, but I’d noticed such inquisitions would often hail upon those considered outsiders. I answered politely, and she immediately pressed me for details: where was I from, how long was I down there, who did I know, how did I get there, although she offered none of the same information about herself. Finally, she smiled haughtily and said “Exactly how old are you?,” implying I was a lost waif, pathetically flitting about. “Twenty-four” I smiled. “And you?” She scowled and turned her attention back to her Poseidon, who was already drifting towards a finer fish.

As I worked on another margarita, I watched the personal politics among all these gringos who’d fled to Mexico to escape the dramas they were now recreating. They considered themselves more cultured than the PV set, and much more adventurous which was clearly evidenced by their presence in Yelapa. Never mind that there were generators hidden away to churn out the electricity they demanded, or that they paid locals peanuts to cart their stuff to and from Vallarta; they enjoyed boasting that there was no power to be found, and that only a water taxi could get you there.

Emelle stumbled back over to me and I felt her eyes watching my face. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right,” she declared. And with an imperial sweep of her arm, she indeed spoke my very thoughts: “You can travel the world – and believe me, I have – and you won’t find anywhere as stupid as this.”