For eight pesos a piece, Ty and I take the bus south to the oceanside village named after the mouth-shaped bay it calls home. Boca is about thirty minutes south of Puerto Vallarta and straddles the convergence of a sleepy little mountain river and the Pacific Ocean.
The place looks like it wants heaps more people here than actually ever visit. A dozen empty cabanas line the beach. Twice that many tables and chairs sit unoccupied along the river. Musicians and people selling all kinds of useless trinkets congregate around the few of us who look like tourists. No gracias becomes the phrase of the day, and even that isn’t enough for the musicians.
Half of the community live on the side of the river with the road, and the other half live on the mountainside without. Water taxis do most of the ferrying of people and goods to these homes, but a walking trail also exists. It crosses the outdoor patios of large and small homes as it makes its way through the jungle. Sometimes we walk shoulder-to-shoulder with locals, but for the most part it’s just the two of us, the cool ocean breeze, and an occasional butterfly.