It was late January, and inside me grew an uncomfortable urge to go somewhere dangerous, foreign, and lonely--and Baja, just a hop across the border yet a world away, would be the place

BY ALASTAIR BLAND

It is early May. I am in the Vizcaino desert of Baja California, and there is not a soul around. Overhead, the sky is pure blue. To the east it meets the summits of a high range of mountains, and to the west the broad desert plains. The terrible sun has heated the country to ninety-five degrees. Though I am walking along a road, I do not expect to encounter any vehicles. I have walked all the way from Mulege, over on the coast of the Sea of Cortez. There has been no traffic for a week and I have come eighty miles. The silence is overwhelming and I cannot help but wonder for a moment what I am doing here. I have been traveling the great Baja peninsula on and off for the better part of a year now, on foot, camping, carrying a diving spear, and living out of my backpack. I have spent most of my time south of the city of Guerrero Negro and north of Land's End at Cabo San Lucas.

Half of me hopes that I can walk this road all the way to its end without encountering a car. Then there is one quarter of me that hopes a Mexican pickup will come along and take me to the highway at San Ignacio where I can freshen up and rest for the afternoon in the shady plaza before setting out on a new adventure. And the last quarter of me is hoping for a ride with some California surfers who are going all the way to San Diego. If that quarter of me gets its way, I'll be swept out of this desert dreamland of mine and be magically transferred to the metropolis of Southern California by nightfall. I am at very loose ends. I am tired and lonely, and I miss home. Yet, I dread the idea of leaving the desert.

As I walk I remember when I first came to the Baja peninsula more than a year ago, just after finishing college at UC Santa Barbara. It was late January, and inside me grew an uncomfortable urge to go somewhere dangerous, foreign, and lonely--and Baja, just a hop across the border yet a world away, would be the place. I was terrified in the beginning. I can remember distrusting the taxi drivers on the streets of Tijuana, the police officers directing the horrid traffic, the clerks at the bus station, the driver who took my bag from me just before I boarded, and the deep silence of my first night camped alone in the Baja bush--but my confidence grew with each day and each positive encounter with locals. I hitchhiked with ranchers and fishermen. I sat down with them for coffee. They asked where I was going, where I was from. They gave me water from their wells and told me of secret fishing spots.

Winter turned to spring and the temperatures climbed. My skin turned brown, my hair yellow. I traveled as far south as Cabo San Lucas. I often walked as much as fifteen miles along gnarled shoreline of rocks and cliffs. I ate fish and sea urchins two or three times each day. I bought handmade tortillas from village ladies. I endlessly asked for water, and the ranchers and fishermen I met were always intrigued by my unusual habits. Why no car, they would ask? Don’t you need money? What about a family? Sometimes they got me wondering, too.

I returned home for two months in the summer, then went back to Baja in the fall. The early September temperatures hovered each day at more than 100 degrees. This was the rainy season, and thunderstorms soaked me on occasion. The mosquitoes were awful. One night near Mulege I was bitten at least a thousand times. The insects sent me packing and running along the shore in the middle of what was the worst night of my life. On September 22, a hurricane arrived. I spent the storm in the sturdy beach house of an old gringo just south of the Bay of Conception. Rain fell in terrible excess. The brown water rushed from the mountains and into the sea, transporting uprooted palm trees and drowned animals. The wind exceeded 90 miles per hour, the barometer dropped, and the ocean rose. We barricaded the house, but the waves burst through the doors. In the morning I helped the man clean up his home. I threw stones, lumber, and dead fish out the front door for three days, swept out the sand, then wished him luck and moved southward, past one destroyed fish camp after another.

Autumn in Baja is the season of the pitahaya, a delicious cactus fruit unique to this corner of the world. I found the bright red balls decorating the land for miles around in some inland regions. I lived off the bright crimson flesh and I had the small black seeds of the pitahaya lodged in my teeth for two months. I hiked upward into the mountains west of Loreto and encountered a canyon oasis, long ago planted by the Spaniards. A tiny, old village resided here in the jungle of mangos, avocados, figs, and date palms. The orchards were abandoned and I ate freely for days.

I returned to the shore of the Cortez and slowly moved northward. Gravity worked on me, pulling me home. I was beginning to feel lonely and out of place. This desert life began to feel a bit empty. I returned home sadly in early November. I thought I was done with Baja, but late in the winter of 2004 I returned yet again. I had few new places to visit. Fishermen recognized me, ranchers knew my name. Even bus drivers and street vendors remembered me from months before. They wondered about me and my lack of a car, job, tent, or wife. I began to feel vaguely ashamed of myself--endlessly scruffy, always in need of water, eager to accept offerings of goat cheese and coffee.

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