(continued)
Now, in early May of 2004, I realize that my life of hardship is really quite silly--something of a false bubble I have put around myself. The boring truth is, I have a healthy bank account, and in my pocket there is an ATM card, and it even works here in the towns that have cash machines. Though I have many times halfheartedly wished that I might run out of money like a downtrodden character of fiction, it has never happened.
Running out of food is another fantasy I have entertained, though in this warm land where strangers call you "friend," going hungry just doesn't happen. Yet, this morning I somehow found myself sitting at the roadside scarfing the last of my food--a spoonful of flour. I washed it down with some water from my plastic jug, and for the first time in a year I had no food, and not a tortilla hut for miles. I sat down at the side of the road for fifteen minutes and seriously pondered what to do and where to go. Then, faintly, my ears picked up the calls of a rooster and some goat bells. I stood and followed the sounds up a dry river bed, and a mile away I found a quiet little ranch. I went to the gate, called "Hello!" and out came a small old man from his shack into the dusty yard, scattering the chickens before him. He regarded me for a moment, then asked, "Coffee?" and opened the wooden gate for me.
I needed something more than coffee, and I asked in Spanish for water and if I could buy some flour. The old man, Jesus, frowned at my offer of money and took from a shelf over the woodstove a piece of goat cheese and some stale tortillas. It was nearly all the food he had at the moment, but he saw that I was in a predicament, and he seemed glad to part with it.
Jesus told me that the next ranch down the road was called El Cuarenta, eighteen kilometers away. "They make excellent cheese there," he assured me. "You will not go hungry."
After he provisioned me I told him I appreciated his charity and that I would not forget him. The last I saw him, Jesus was standing inside of the gate, watching me go. He was born there, he had told me, and I imagine he will die there. I have met so many people like him in the Baja ranchlands and on the Baja shorelines, and it warms me up inside to know that there are friendly human hearts beating in this lonely desert. It makes me wonder, however, to think that these humble shacks with their wooden fences, the animals outside, and the few skeletal trees in the yard are their only homes.
My own home in San Francisco is a different world, but I am of it, and I miss it. Out here I am dirty, alone, and hungry, but even after so many months of wandering the peninsula I have not managed to break free of my urban American roots. I find myself longing for the company of my family and friends, walking around amidst tall buildings and crowds of people. The big city is undeniably my home.
As I walk along the dirt road, pondering my year in Baja, I just can't help but wonder how I got here--and why. This is the Vizcaino desert. The sky above is vast and empty. The terrain around me is dry and forbidding. The terrible sun beats down on me. I am a stranger in a strange land. This country is Jesus's homeland--not mine--but I care little about the conventional ambitions of my culture. I have no permanent job and no plans for the future. I have been living out of my pack day by day for so long now. The aspirations of my life are simple and so easily fulfilled: meet some new people, have some coffee, buy some cheese, and perhaps spear a fish for dinner. But is this life a good one? Am I happy? I am 24 and perhaps too young to know.
I am still hiking along, thinking about hurricanes, pitahaya fruits, and the quiet waters of the Cortez--and wondering if I can reach El Cuarenta ranch by nightfall and get some real food in me--when a roaring motor seems to come out of nowhere from behind me. I whirl around and meet four pairs of eyes behind a windshield. It is a pickup truck, filled with American surfers. They skid to a stop and we are lost for a moment in a cloud of dust. Their surfboards are on top. They have room in back for me. They are going to San Diego. Three quarters of me doesn't want to do it, but I find myself climbing in.
"We'll be there by 10 pm!" one of them shouts back at me cheerfully through the sliding window, and then we're off, racing northward at 50 miles per hour. My spirits sink to rock bottom. I don’t want to leave this place, not yet. I nestle into their pile of bags to escape the wind. My pack and my spear are all I have, but they have everything: food, sodas, beer, tents, surfboards, and much more. My dirt-poor lifestyle suddenly seems so pointless. In minutes we are zipping by El Cuarenta. The guys up front don't even notice the ranch, but I do. It is a humble cluster of wooden shacks. I see some goats in the corral and some skeletal trees in the yard. It is like any other ranch I have seen in the past year, yet I still want to go in and meet the family. I almost shout, "Hey, you guys! We can buy some cheese here!"--but that life is over. We'll be home soon. There will be freeways and skyscrapers and banks. I could even go to an ATM machine inside a supermarket. Why, I could buy all the cheese in the world. The land of plenty is just hours away.
The desert vanishes behind me. The western sky turns orange, and I watch the Baja sun sink for the last time. El Norte, the United States, lies just ahead, and to think that poor Jesus is still sitting in his humble little shack! For him, going to America might be like a dream come true. But I, with Baja disappearing before my eyes, begin to cry.
OUT OF THE HANDBOOK
GENERAL TIPS: Travelers to Baja should acquire the latest in the AAA Map series of the peninsula. Traveling in Baja without a car is very rigorous, especially in late spring, summer and fall when the temperatures frequently rise over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Though a reliable bus system runs the length of the peninsula, the buses do not cater to villages off the pavement. On dirt roads, hitch-hiking may be an option but is not guaranteed to be safe or dependable. Campers are advised to carry a shade shelter, sunscreen, bug spray, and a broad hat--and to keep a constant eye on one’s water supply. Well-water is potable, though foreigners may want to treat it with iodine. For those who enjoy the ocean, bring a mask and snorkel.
