The Burro Stories

It happened:

We had been touring Southern Mexico in the Taurus with light gear (tent, basic cooking equipment) so as to better visit the highlands, and came back to the Pacific at Zipolite, near Puerto Angel. ‘Zipolite’ is a Mixtec word meaning ‘Beach of Death’, and in talking with some gringo denizens of the many ‘hammock galleries’ in the shade of rustic beach restaurants, we found out why. The beach is very steep, the undertow treacherous, the Pacific breakers very large, and the tequila and strange smelling tobacco very potent; and the combination of these elements often led to fatalities amongst the vacationing northerners.

[Two weeks prior to our visit, 5 German lads had been washed out to sea, as each in turn had tried to save another. Word was that their bodies had washed back into shore 25 k north, at Puerto Escondido.]

The camping area was very primitive – no facilities whatsoever, but then there was no charge. If one needed the toilet or a shower, arrangements could be made with a restaurant on the adjacent beach. A few tents were set up amongst a stand of coco-palms left over from a long abandoned plantation. The palms were very tall, and at the time of our tent set-up, other campers warned us of two things:

a) not to set up too close to the palms, else a coconut dropping from a height of 60’ could not only leave an interesting depression on one’s car roof, but might crash through one’s tent roof (and skull); and

b) not to set up at mid-point betwixt the palms, because the wild donkey/burros (jack-asses they called them) periodically ran through the aisles for exercise, and one would certainly not want to be sleeping in the path of a jack-ass stampede.

Now these burros were descendents of those kept by the owners of the abandoned plantation – guess the owners had just turned them loose when departing, to live off the land. The present generation of burros had adapted well, learning how to also live off the campers, and to this end they often operated in pairs, whereby one burro would lift your icebox lid in the dark and the second would steal your food.

Now, the braying sound that a jackass makes is one of nature’s marvels. It’s a series of explosive hee-haws alternated with whistling gasps of air uptake. One day we heard a Jack braying and whistling down at the far end of the plantation, and an answering call from a nearby Jenny that was foraging with her yearling. Now we’re not all that fluent in the burro idiom, but the braying and gasping and responses between those two did seem to take on a certain meaningful intensity; Jack in any event seemed to have heard what he wanted to hear and suddenly - as though some switch within him had been flipped - he thundered past, braying and whistling up a storm.

The Jenny, coy female that she was, had by now turned her back on Jack’s charge and gone back to foraging behind her yearling, but she must have been watching the onrushing love-blinded Romeo out of the corner of her eye, because just as he launched into his best mounting leap, Jenny kicked back with both heels and the sound of her hooves connecting with poor Jack’s head sounded like a machete splitting a coconut, and we were much impressed with the sound effects even at a distance of a good 100’ away from the point of impact.

Jack landed back on his arse in a heap.

At this point the yearling got into the act, and lashed back at his Ma’s head. This resulted in another machete/split coconut sound effect, and Jenny crumpled back over old Jack.

[Courtship is always a tricky business.]

- - - - - -

Another burro tale, you ask? Well then, this also happened:

1500k north of Puerto Angel, we were camping at another fishing village, to which the Mexican government had recently constructed a beautiful new 3k asphalt connector to Hwy 200, as is being done with many coastal communities on the Pacific to encourage tourist access.

Each morning we are up before daybreak, walking out the new road, up the highway, back to the ocean along another road, and then ‘home’ via the beach – a good two-hour rectangular trek. We would be away from camp very early so as to arrive back for breakfast before the sun got too high.

So, this one fine morning we were on the first leg - walking out of the village on the new connector in the pre-dawn mist, and suddenly we hear a chorus of braying and whistling up ahead, and wondered whether perhaps we’d finally get to see burros in the act of making more burros, but no!!! Here were three donkeys out on the new road, and they’d gotten themselves into a Sufi ecstatic frenzy. They had invented a great game on this unfamiliar new tarmac.

Picture this: Two burros would face each other, their necks would entwine, then they’d start a rotating movement with their locked necks and heads going round faster and faster until the feet of one of the burros would leave the ground, its body would soar through the air and then it would crash on its back onto the pavement, venting a great scream as its breath was knocked out. Whilst recovering, the dizzily deposed one would watch as the third burro took on the victor of round one. Round and round this cycle went – the burros were as delirious as whirling dervishes. Such natural joy – such primal exuberance! We were agog and nearly dizzy ourselves from just watching the spectacle.

Then some farmers’ dogs got into the act, barking, charging and snapping at the burros, but the creatures were on their own private nirvanic plane and completely ignored the dogs. The sleepy farmers themselves were then sent out by their wives, and when the farmers saw what the ruckus was all about they lent their voices to those of the dogs and burros, and swatted everything moving with their big sombreros. However, nothing would stop the manic dance of the hee-hawing jack-asses until the farmers pelted them with rocks - then bigger rocks - and finally the tawny trio were snapped out of their altered state.

In time, the burros were herded back to their field, peace was restored to the village, and we two could continue our self-appointed rounds, assured that Mexico’s roads were again safe.

Keith and Marnie Elliott’s “REMEDY” Site

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