No Roads to Yelapa

After a day of some classic American cinema enjoyed on the Primera Plus buses, we spent one night in a dumpy hotel on the beach in Puerto Vallarta -- I should have trusted my New York instincts when taking advice from the taxi driver, who I later realized steered us away from what was probably a much nicer joint. But no matter. We saw the ocean, drank a few beers on the beach then went and played pool -- incidentally, I've developed a special talent for winning every game when my opponent scratches while shooting the eight ball. You see? Actual skill is not always required in order to win.

Yelapa can only be reached by boat, and was a welcome relief from the multi-national corporation vibe that has all but destroyed Puerto Vallarta. There are no Hooters or Chili's or Starbucks to be found in this small fishing village, about a 40-minute boat ride from the resort-saturated beaches we left behind. There is, however, a collection of aging gringo hippies from the era when Bob Dylan and Dennis Hopper apparently frequented these tranquil, coarse-sanded shores. It struck me as an excellent location for those running from the law, opening the doors of perception, or matting the dredlocks.