The Coming of Light - Yelapa Reflections By Nina Grand • Photos by Jesús de Avila • April 2010
Above the town, facing the open sea, I sit on the small deck of my house in Yelapa staring into the night. I can see the row of lights that illuminate the hotel on the far side of the bay. Only one street light from the pier in town is visible. The rest are blocked by buildings. It is surrounded in a metallic halo. A single swaying light in the distance catches my attention. It resembles a flying saucer. I watch it with uncertainty. It is only a light on a boat’s mast bobbing in the water. I relax. Only one of the four lights in my small house is turned on. I hear the faint sound of soulful ranchero music coming from a neighbor’s stereo. Occasionally a male voice sings along.
I locate the constellation, Orion the Hunter. My eyes search for the Big Dipper. The handle is turned around so that it looks like a huge question mark hanging in the sky. I smile. With all the changes that I’ve witnessed over the years, there is still no doubt, no question mark in my
mind: I am where I want to be.
15 November 2001 was the day that my way of life in Yelapa changed forever.
I usually arrive late in the season because I go to India first. Not that year. I had been in NYC when the World Trade Towers were attacked. For the very first time in my entire life, India wasn’t calling as it always had. I needed comfort, solace and support and I knew that it was waiting for me in Mexico. I knew that my beloved India would understand and wait for
me, so I headed to Yelapa.
Yelapa was having its own problems that year. Electricity poles had been erected and much of the dense foliage that graced its beautiful paths had been cut down to accommodate them. The usually lush trails were bare like an embarrassed woman caught without her makeup on. I wasn’t required to have electricity installed in my rustic house. I weighed the pros and cons but in my heart I never really wanted it. I had lived there for so many years without it. As far as I was concerned, that was part of Yelapa’s charm and appeal. I prided myself on living like a pioneer, in the spirit of simplicity. My New York City friends considered me an eccentric, but most of us in Yelapa loved living by candlelight.
I knew that I had to move on with the times. I fought back the tears that welled up in my eyes on that fateful morning in November as I watched Juanillo and Baterias install electricity. I wondered how two men who had lived their entire lives without electricity knew how to do it - but they did. I looked on as they chiseled out a hole in the wall to place the box for the electric paraphernalia inside. And then it happened. They pressed the switch and the lights came on. Though I never regretted it, it did take some getting used to.
Electricity gave us the night. We could now read at night, cook, wash dishes, listen to music and see the insects that buzzed and the animals that foraged around our homes. It took me a few more years before I gave into getting a refrigerator.
That year, though, was a boon for the cargadores. Everything from blenders and microwaves to refrigerators, washing machines and TVs arrived by the boat load. It reminded me of Noah’s Ark. Just as quickly as these new status symbols arrived, they were soon seen discarded on the hilltops like some kind of new graveyard. Sometimes the humidity rusted out the appliance and sometimes a sudden power surge burned them out.
Now electricity and all the conveniences that it affords are no longer a novelty. They have become a necessity. There are street lights, public telephones, ice and video games, but there are still areas of darkness. I like it that my house is far enough off the main road that I still need a flashlight at night to guide me up the steep trail. I sit in the darkness by choice, remembering, staring off into the night, my fridge humming softly in the background. The moon is rising and with it renewed hope for whatever tomorrow may bring. Email to a friend
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Above the town, facing the open sea, I sit on the small deck of my house in Yelapa staring into the night. I can see the row of lights that illuminate the hotel on the far side of the bay. Only one street light from the pier in town is visible. The rest are blocked by buildings. It is surrounded in a metallic halo. A single swaying light in the distance catches my attention. It resembles a flying saucer. I watch it with uncertainty. It is only a light on a boat’s mast bobbing in the water. I relax. Only one of the four lights in my small house is turned on. I hear the faint sound of soulful ranchero music coming from a neighbor’s stereo. Occasionally a male voice sings along. 
Yelapa was having its own problems that year. Electricity poles had been erected and much of the dense foliage that graced its beautiful paths had been cut down to accommodate them. The usually lush trails were bare like an embarrassed woman caught without her makeup on. I wasn’t required to have electricity installed in my rustic house. I weighed the pros and cons but in my heart I never really wanted it. I had lived there for so many years without it. As far as I was concerned, that was part of Yelapa’s charm and appeal. I prided myself on living like a pioneer, in the spirit of simplicity. My New York City friends considered me an eccentric, but most of us in Yelapa loved living by candlelight. 
Now electricity and all the conveniences that it affords are no longer a novelty. They have become a necessity. There are street lights, public telephones, ice and video games, but there are still areas of darkness. I like it that my house is far enough off the main road that I still need a flashlight at night to guide me up the steep trail. I sit in the darkness by choice, remembering, staring off into the night, my fridge humming softly in the background. The moon is rising and with it renewed hope for whatever tomorrow may bring. 