• Home
• Basement Musicians
• Baja By Chance .pdf
• BAJA BY CHANCE
• Writing About Music
• TIM MAGLIONE
• CONTACT

Here is the little book I wrote, BAJA BY CHANCE - a love affair. The feedback I received after I put it on the website has encouraged me to invite other writers to display their work. I'm working on it. Ray Turner

Following several trips to Baja, Mexico, I made some notes about the people and places of Baja, Mexico.Here it is for your reading pleasure.
To download it as a .pdf. file or to sell it for profit to a reputable publisher (maybe Penguin would take it,) or, heaven forbid, to print it (45 pages–you have been warned) click here BAJA BY CHANCE–a love affair

BAJA BY CHANCE – a love affair
road notes by Ray Turner

SERENDIPITY
This is a record of my fifteen year flirtation with the thousand mile long peninsula that I regard as Mexico’s pride and joy. Not that I have seen much of Mexico. It is huge, but I bet Baja is one of the best bits. Like all adventures of the heart, travelling has had its share of ups and downs: excitement, disappointment, expectations, joy and misery. You won’t be sharing my love affair because I have left out the saucy parts. I won’t ask you to join me on the journey because I travel alone. I simply hope that the jottings made from the driver’s seat will encourage you to discover for yourself its character and beauty.

I was a planner when I started but on each successive visit I relied less, and less, on other people’s information and more, and more, on serendipity. Somehow, the diversity and charm of Baja revealed itself in the most unexpected places – provided I allowed unexpectedness to occur.

If you think this book includes all the information you need to visit Baja you are out of luck. You will not find any advice about how or where to camp, the exchange rate, insurance, medical, or the Mexican judicial system for when you end up in jail.

My first campsites in 1996 were in Guerrero Negro, Santa Rosalia, Catavina, La Paz, San Jose del Cabo, Cabo San Lucas, Todos Santos and San Roque. It seems a lot, but I only scratched the surface of this fascinating territory. To use another metaphor, the places I saw, and the experiences I had, were just a spit in the ocean. There is a lot more ocean waiting for your spit. (Note to self: review metaphor usage.)

Taking a different path from the norm can be scary and you might just end up in that Mexican jail. However, you will have lived – maybe to camp again!

FIRST THINGS FIRST


The first thing I do in preparation for a camping trip (anywhere) is to purchase a couple of “Julian” pies. You can buy them in stores in San Diego but a more interesting choice is to visit the place that bakes them – Julian, an old gold rush town about an hour east of San Diego. It’s not the pies you’re after, though they are scrumptious; it’s the aluminum pie plates that they come in that you will find useful in a thousand ways. Depending on whether you bought them at Mom’s Apple Pies or the Julian Pie Company, they might even have an inscription to remind you where you got them.

These pie plates last a long time in the camp or RV kitchen. I still have two that I bought five years ago and they have countless, unexpected advantages. They are best used over a very low gas flame. They quickly warm up coffee or soup, fry a couple of eggs. You can eat out of them, even cram them into a toaster oven. Sometimes, I just leave one out in the sun and a complete, well-cooked meal appears.


CAMPING WITH JIM 1996


My first overnight camping spot in Mexico was a deserted landing strip. A road sign had grandly announced AEROPUERTO, but it was just a strip of tar with potholes, much like the highway. There were no planes or buildings. My translation of aeropuerto now became camping spot for van. I doubted there would be any 747s landing there that morning. However, I left at first light because one of the fears that van campers live with is of being discovered on private property. That’s the way it is when travelling in a foreign country like Mexico – or the United States.

At the nearby village I picked up my first hitchhiker. He was waiting at a bus stop but I think that was just a coincidence, because it was Sunday and there would hardly be any buses that early. The old man just knew it was a good place to catch a ride. He wore a long, bulky coat and looked, like me, as though he had just woken up. I marked him as a rider by the bedroll he carried. He made no gesture towards me but when our eyes met, an offer and acceptance were quickly made. The man was used to hitching rides, but he walked stiffly. I had to get out to help him into the passenger seat. (It occurs to me now that he might have had arthritis in his hip, something like my own later experience.) He rattled off some Spanish including the name of a town at least fifty kilometers ahead. I settled in for a long ride without a common language. We managed to understand each other quite well. I introduced myself in awful Spanish, something like ‘Yo me Raymondo.’ Expecting an exotic name in response, I nearly drove off the road when he gave me his–JIM MCPHERSON! It took a while for him to explain that he was a mestizo; his father was Scottish, his mother pure Indian. His Dad (yes, he said, Dad,) had been a sailor and a miner in Mexico and California. Jim, it might have been James at some time, had worked at many jobs but for the past thirty years he had lived a life of simplicity, just riding the road, visiting people and places.

Over a thousand miles of the Baja peninsula, I met up with Jim four times. I was not really camping with him. We just shared rides–from San Ignacio to Tres Volcanos, Santa Rosalia to Villa Insurgentes and Villa Insurgentes to La Paz. He was psychically attached to my van, appearing from out of nowhere, disappearing just as easily. Once, I dropped him off at a town and made a side trip to a beach for three days. When I returned to the highway, there he was again, ready for another ride. As we travelled, he told me about the mountains and the desert, of tigres, bees, honey, and medicinal plants. He showed me little bags of herbs from the pockets of his big coat and I wondered if he traded for his rides that way. He knew a lot about such things. I almost hoped I would become ill so that he could cure me with some native concoction.

Finding overnight camp sites was usually simple, but as a first-time solo traveller in Baja I had a natural caution. I had heard a few scary tales of bandits who would rob travellers right on the highway. Camping too close, or too far, from habitation could be risky. One night, I parked the van well off the road by the entrance to a ranch. We cooked beans and made coffee. Jim refused beer but drank a clear liquid from a small bottle. I realised later that it was very cheap alcohol, available in the mercardo, next to bottles of liquor and wine. It was quite cold that night near La Paz. Jim slept in his bedroll under the stars. Inside the van, my sleep was disturbed just once by the noise of a diesel truck and loud, cheerful voices. It was only the rancher and his workers returning from a night out.

Jim always appreciated the rides I gave him. As we approached Villa Insurgentes, he insisted that he would repay me by treating me to lunch, promising me the best tasting meat, at the best taco stand in the Baja. When we got there, it was as good as he said, but somehow, I ended up paying.

We parted company in La Paz, but a month later I met him again. He was struggling up a steep hill in San Jose del Cabo. He said his knees were giving him trouble, that he would not be travelling the roads any more because it hurt too much to walk. Somehow, I don’t think he’s finished. I imagine myself returning to the Baja, wondering if he would be there again, waiting for me at the side of the road, or is he just waiting for the van? Maybe, it’s the ride he wants, not the person. I feel I am interesting enough–been around the world a couple of times, flown in airplanes, seen the biggest hockey stick in the world. I could tell a few tales, but not with the same distinction as a Mexican named Jim McPherson.

Maybe, the van is looking for him? I’ll have to talk to the van.


TALK TO YOUR VEHICLE BUT ONLY WHEN ALONE
I usually drive alone. For me, there is no greater advantage than being able to drive exactly when I want, to where I want and how I want. Occasionally, I will have a passenger for a short while, sometimes, longer. Once, at a military checkpoint, I transported four sleepy soldiers home for the weekend. They snored in the back of the van so they were more like private security than company. They did not know it but they rode on the terms of my vehicular dictatorship. The downside of traveling alone is that driving can be physically tiring. One of me has to stay awake. A few times, I would have appreciated someone, anyone, from the passenger seat screaming, “WAKE UP, YOU’RE GOING OVER THE CLIFF!”


I have driven three different vehicles on my camping trips to Baja: an Econoline Van, a Class C. Motor Home and a Nissan King Cab Truck. None of these were four-wheel-drive, which would have been useful on many occasions involving sand. All required on-the-road maintenance, and often their owner was neglectful. However, I believe I have lengthened the lives of all these vehicles (and me,) and kept us all happy by maintaining a conversation with them.

There are appropriate times for these one-sided conversations, say, just after a huge truck comes out of nowhere removing the side mirror. (It is usually from behind. I am a slow driver,) or, when I miss a tope (speed bump) and feel the bodies and contents–the car’s and mine–shmamble around. However, the most common occasion for discourse is when I am feeling nervous and wondering if we are going to make it to the next destination. Something like this:

“Listen, O Great Grey KingCab with much Rust of Body Parts, I have to say, once again, that I really appreciate your patience with me. Forgive me if I have abused you in far too many ways. It is true that your power steering is still disabled because of its tendency to leak fluids of all kinds. I also understand that you suffer from stiffness in your tie rod ends, as I do, in my own arthritic shoulders. I promise I will get your muffler fixed the next time I see a sign that says mofle. (Did that sign say mofle? No. I think it said llantera. We will keep going.) Your tires, by the way, are in great shape. That’s partly because I take great care to inflate and deflate them according to the nature of the road–if there is one.

You have served me well, Nissan San. You don’t complain much, but when you attract my attention by making the steering wheel flop around in my hands, or make that excessive grinding transmission noise, I do my best to take care of you. However, I draw the line at excessive oil leaks, like that time in downtown Seattle. I know, I know. I became deaf and said it was the radiator, but it turned out it was a transmission seal leaking fluid and turned into an eight hundred dollar repair job. But the guy that did it, he let us camp in his garage overnight and said he would stop drinking until the job was done. He kept his word and we all felt better afterwards. Forgive me for never doing something about the brake warning light that has remained red since the day I bought you. I have gotten used to it but your nervous system must twitch at the waste of energy every time the key turns. Speaking of ignition, how come you will only start in “Neutral?” Was it something I said?

Perhaps this is all superstitious claptrap to keep me sane, but, it helps to pass the time and I feel better for it. However, a warning: never talk to your truck, or RV, or any vehicle when your girlfriend is with you. She may complain, and tell you, with some heat, “You talk to your truck better than you talk to me.” I only made that mistake once. Later, I thought to myself, “At least, the truck does not talk back.”


HOW TO GET THERE


First, drive and enjoy fourteen hundred miles of polite Canadian and U.S. highways till you cross the border at Tijuana. Then, for a change of pace, confront a thousand miles of the Baja peninsula–murderous, winding mountain roads with the thinnest shoulders imaginable, spectacular desert scenery containing everything from the lowest potholes to the highest topes with accompanying wrecked vehicles, wandering cattle and goats.

I loved it! Even, the final fifty miles on a jarring, dusty, washboard of a road, foolishly navigated in the dark, that became an eerie, dark adventure. I have come to know those roads well. Speed limits in Baja California are largely ignored. Signs may say anything from 20 to 80 kph., even 100 on the Ensenada toll road, but on this one thousand mile highway from Tijuana to Los Cabos, most drivers are all out to make the trip as fast as they can. The big trucks are common casualties on the steep mountain roads. Bent railings and shells of wrecked and rusted cars fallen into the arroyos are constant reminders. There seem to be fewer such wrecks lately. Maybe they just get cleared away faster now.


SAN ROQUE
A friend in San Diego, Mary, said to me, “Ray, if you’re going to Baja, could you take a package to Shari. She lives in Bahia Asuncion.” That sounded just right. I had no idea where Bahia Asuncion was, but when venturing into the unknown it is nice to have a contact or two. I told Mary that I was not sure exactly where I was going but if it was on the way, why not? Five hundred miles later, it was as far out of my way as anything could be. In fact, the place where I found Shari was not even in Bahia Asuncion but living in the next bahia down, tiny, beautiful, but almost deserted, San Roque.


Years ago, San Roque was an active fishing community with housing for more than a dozen families. There was a church, store, school, basketball court and a generating plant for street lights. Today, there are only the remains of a few dwellings, some half-buried cars, a shell of a church. There is no water in the reservoir that sits on the hill. Water had to be trucked in. That seems to have been one of the reasons why the community abandoned the village and removed itself to Bahia Asuncion, eight miles away. 
 
Only three or four of the houses have remained habitable. One of these belongs to Shari Bondi. Back then, Shari was teaching in Guerrero Negro but being a camping, ocean-going type, she found a place she loved in San Roque. 


At Shari’s invitation, I, too, became a temporary resident of this tiny, intriguing community. The peace and quiet and opportunity for exploration made it very attractive. I was to return there many times to enjoy the swimming, sea life and quiet of San Roque. A special advantage for me on my initial visits was, because so few people lived there, there was not likely to be complaints about the way I played the saxophone. 


The beach to the South is eight miles long, sandy and spectacularly open. Pelicans, cormorants, and gulls of all kinds abound. Sea-lions can be seen and, more often, heard. Thanks to a warm current, the water is surprisingly warm for a large part of the year. The kelp beds and open water are full of fish. The rocks are host to mussels, abalone, sea snails, and octopus; if you turn your head inland, sandy mesas and dunes remind you that San Roque lies on the edge of the arid Vizcaino Desert.

Life at San Roque is very peaceful. After living there for a while, the sound of the surf recedes into the background, although it is never completely muted. After all, this is the Pacific, where crashing waves are the norm. An exception is in the early morning when a procession of pickup trucks leaves Bahia Asuncion and arrives at the bay. Their drivers are there to fish the waters around Isla de San Roque which dominates the horizon.

Shari is now married and lives in Bahia Asuncion. She is an occasional visitor to her beach house. Otherwise, there are only a couple of residents. One is Umberto, whom I suspect would rather be a cowboy than a fisherman, and who keeps his quarter-horse at his home in San Roque.


Lastly, and most importantly, there is, or, was, Jimbo. Until his death in 2008, he was a longtime and venerable employee of the fishing cooperative. In his role of vigilancia for the cooperative, he kept watch on the pangas, outboard motors and, during the season, made sure that the floating crates of live lobster waiting for market were well protected. Jimbo was a true gentleman who looked out not just for lobster poachers, but for all the friends and visitors that made up his life in San Roque and Bahia Asuncion.


PEPE Y PERROS
One day, while minding a friend’s house, a car stopped. I heard the car door close, then a voice, tentatively calling, “Perros? Estas perros?” The man was relieved when I told him, “No perros.” This was a gringo’s house and dogs, if there had been any, would likely be more controlled than those of Mexican owners. Sensibly, like me, he still carried a healthy fear of dogs. Here, they roam everywhere, hungry for food and romance. They are bold, competitive and if they have a home, perform the extra role of protecting their owners.

Pepe was merely distributing flyers for a community event, but, understanding the variances of dogs and their owners, he was apprehensive. I do not blame him. I also am afraid when walking around Mexican villages. The trick, when approached aggressively by a dog, whether on a bicycle or not, is to bend down low and pretend to pick up a rock. Mexican dogs think you are going to shy it at them and they run away. That is the theory, anyway.  (Note to self: stop giving advice, something you were not going to do.)


I am also afraid of dogs when riding a bicycle. (Not that I have seen many dogs riding a bicycle.) Sometimes, I cycle through neighborhoods where the dogs get into a pack, barking and setting one another off. There is always one who thinks he can get a piece of a Canadian cyclist, a trophy nip. I would not choose to be a door-to-door sales representative in Mexico. Especially on a bicycle.

There are no lost dogs in Bahia Asuncion. They all know exactly where they are. They give a very good impression of being lost, but that is because, whether “owned” or not, they roam looking for extra food. They will get it from other homes, usually the trash can. They have to compete with ravens and seabirds, coyotes, for scraps, and they leave their mark, over turned trash cans. It is a garbage collectors’ nightmare.

I know most of the dogs in the neighbourhood. They are all shapes and sizes, some with the recognisable signs of a pedigree: shepherd, boxer, king charles spaniel, mutt. There must have been a blue heeler visiting at some time. I like the little black and white floppy spaniel that turns up sometimes. He looks ready for a clown audition. My choice is not to own a pet because I move around too much, so I keep an aloof profile. But I am not cruel. Rather than put food scraps in the bin, (dogs’ noses rule) I walk to a deserted area and drop them there.

For the last few days and nights, there has been extra commotion around my campsite, close by a neighbor’s house. It was much louder than usual, with a different kind of tone. Let’s call it howling. Or, maybe, yearning. Finally, it dawned on me these dogs were in noisy love. The neighbour’s female dog, in heat, was being confined to the house. Twenty wannabe lovers were paying daily visits.


LANGOSTAS


This morning I have a date with a fishing boat. I was up and watching for headlights at six. There was a sliver of a moon and as far as I could tell, the usual millions of stars. I peered at what might be the general area of Orion, because the day before a sailor had told me there was a comet to be seen between Orion and some other constellation whose name I have forgotten. There was nothing for me to see, unfortunately, even if I could tell a comet from a star. All I know is that there are lots of stars and the sky is incredibly clear.

I see no headlights heading towards San Roque. I am not surprised. The fishermen have been winding down a little. It is the end of the lobster season and their art has been refined. Teams are working as one and as long as there is bait they can maintain a steady routine, finish faster. Sometimes, there is no bait, like last week, when the supply of sardines from Ensenada ran out. The men, and their wives, complain to the office. Eventually the bait arrives. The fishermen commute here daily, weekends included. They work hard. They get just four official public holidays each year. They also get time off – but no income – when their work is interrupted by bad weather or the annual week of fiesta.

At last, several pickups sweep their headlights past me in the dark. I wave. I always wave, wanting to be friendly. A smile does not always work but a wave usually causes a reflex return wave and contact can be made in that fashion. I hear a different motor noise. It is more sporty due to a faulty muffler and timing chain. It is Domingo’s coupe, the racy Toyota with the rust trim and the pop-up trunk filled with sardines, mussels and other bait, rusty tools, three or four extra batteries, gasoline for the panga, an oft-needed bicycle pump and sometimes, but not today, a dog. His partner Juan is with him. I go ahead of them to the beach but remember I need to take a travel sickness pill. I get sea sick easily. I race back to the RV, take half a a pill, and now, thinking I am the one who is late, use my bicycle for speedy transportation.

Through the dawn light I can see fourteen pangas moored out in the bay. Our captain, Mingo, paddles to one of them in a dinghy. A few pelicans fly from the boat as he arrives. When he brings the boat to shore we load up with gasoline, a few green lobster traps–basically wire cages–and bait. A third crew member, Herman, joins us apologising for being late because of car trouble. There is hardly any wind. On the next wave we launch easily and head off to open water. I have found a place next to capitano Mingo who gets the boat going very fast. There is a fair amount of pitching that makes me worry about my stomach. I am relieved a few minutes later when we make our first stop at a big, round buoy. There is no trap attached here but its black and white markings identify it as one of ours. The traps on board each have a thirty meter rope ready to drop to the bottom. We place two or three traps at what are new locations, making sure buoys are firmly attached. While we were speeding along, Herman was cutting bait and stuffing it into the bait compartments. These first stops are for new dropping points. Everything from now on is pulling lines to see what a day on the ocean bed has brought to each trap.

The traps at our marker buoys are in fairly shallow water so they are hauled up by hand. (Later, I noticed some of the other boats had power winches to do the hauling.) As each trap comes out of the water, hands immediately reach in for lobsters. Each one is measured along its carapace with a special gauge. Only a few are accepted. Ninety per cent are juveniles and are thrown back to grow some more. More bait goes into the empty trap and down it goes again to rest on the bottom.

That morning, we pulled lobsters from traps at thirty different places, each a few hundred meters apart. Navigating was done at high speed without reference to anything other than the combined memories of the crew. (These days, there are GPS devices to aid crews but I believe it is instinct and tradition that creates the map for the men and their ocean.) Returning to base at San Roque, the live lobsters were stored in floating crates, waiting for the weekly trucks to take them to market.

I was a mere passenger that morning, enjoying the speedy dashes between traps but aware of the high level of communication that has to exist between the crew members, Domingo, Juan and Herman. I was also happy to share lunch with my new fisher friends. Fish tacos.

There are two cooperativas in Bahia Asuncion. They provide the pangas, motors, traps, equipment and gasoline. The fishermen are members and are paid according to their production of lobster and fish. When the lobster season ends they will move on to catching yellowtail, tuna or diving for abalone. Other local harvests include an edible seaweed and a kind of sea snail called caracol.


EDUARDO


I went shopping in the Miramar, one of three or four mercados in Bahia Asuncion. The same young man, Eduardo, was serving in the deli section. We greeted each other happily. As I went about the business of ordering chicken, I noted we were repeating the same conversation from two years ago. We knew each other’s names, and how many pesos to the dollar, but neither of us could remember the right word for “leg” or “pierna.”

That was then. Now, in 2009, there is no service in the deli. I have not seen Eduardo on this trip. Mexico has suffered a decline in tourism. The general worldwide economy, coupled with news reports of the “swine” flu, and drug killings have frightened off many tourists away. There is not much money around. The shelves in the stores are often bare and customers at the Miramar are serving themselves from the coolers. I heard Eduardo may be at school in Ensenada.


A PASSION FOR FISHING–NOT!
Once it is accepted that sunshine, ocean and Mexican culture really do exist, a majority of visitors to Baja, especially the men, are there for one thing–the fishing. Maybe, it is the places I seem to arrive at, but there are always fishermen. It must be the water. Sometimes, an old hand will say, “Really, when you come to Baja, you either have to fish or read.” He is right, but he is talking about filling time, something he does not need to worry about because for him fishing is everything! A few will admit to also having a hobby: carving duck decoys, playing the tres, (a three-stringed Cuban instrument,) or writing a novel. My own favorite is untangling other people’s fishing lines or rope from the beach.


You can regard this photograph as something of a red herring because it shows Juan – a real fisherman – congratulating me – not a real fisherman – on catching a fish. I look kind of happy but it is only because I was the first to catch a fish on that particular outing. I repeat, I do not fish.

Believe me, I have tried. From the shore, a fishing kayak, a dock. It all defeats me. My true feelings emerged when I found I had more enthusiasm for repairing my reel (I neglected to rinse off the salt water), than the opportunity to use it again. I was happiest in the kayak in San Roque, especially when I fulfilled my “one fish a day, to eat” policy, I enjoyed just paddling and watching the wild life.

To make up for my lack of passion for fishing, and, therefore, lack of fish, I happily accept fish from happy, successful fishers, or, I can buy it at the pescaderia. In Bahia Asuncion, where everyone, by tradition or, of necessity, fishes, I am constantly offering an apology “Yo no fanatico” and a sad shake of the head. Then, they too, shake their heads and try to cheer me up with a beer. Then they give me a fish.

So, why does someone who has decided he does not fish keep coming back to Baja? My answer is that there were too many other things going on in my life, about which I was passionate. There was music, and the work I did in television, puppetry, and squash, (the game, not the vegetable,) Regrettably, I have not been able to rouse any passion for hook, line and sinker. The harder I tried, the less I loved it. However, what I do love is eating fish . . .

Yes, it must be the eating of fish I am passionate about, not the fish-ing. There, that’s it. Solved. Next chapter.


MIGUEL
One of the mercados in Bahia Asuncion offers the usual selection of foods and drinks, but also a tortilla factory and a selection of fishing gear. Miguel is always helpful but we usually have a blundering time with the language. Behind his burly frame at the counter I could see an impressive collection of fishing trophies. He complained he only came sixth in the Governor’s Cup this year. He clearly understood that I needed equipment before actual fishing could occur. We struck a deal on a smallish rod and reel and some lures.


At the end of our conversation, conducted in my mock Spanish, faux English, and assorted gestures, he inquired as to what fish I was expecting to catch. A couple of tasty species I knew by the local names: blanco (whitefish), corbina, calico. I wanted to add one more, but had forgotten the word for what I knew as halibut, or flounder. My attempts to explain kept Miguel looked puzzled, until, I resorted to mime. I tipped my head on one side, closed one eye and squinted at the ceiling.
“Ah! Si.” he said, “ Lenguado.”


ERNESTO
In a Post Office, I purchased a very large stamp, almost as big as the postcard I was wanting to mail. It featured a picture of a beautiful bird and the words “UNIDOS PARA LA CONSERVACION,” and “Quetzal.” I licked the stamp and applied it to the envelope in the usual way. It immediately fell off, onto the floor. I tried again but my tongue felt only coarse paper. I could taste nothing resembling mucilage. I looked at the stamp again. It dawned on me that “quetzal” must be Spanish for “glue” and that the stamp’s slogan, “UNITED FOR GLUE’ is part of the government’s conservation campaign. I could not see the point of the beautiful bird on the stamp. Maybe it was an endangered species, that somewhere eco-terrorists were boiling its feathers into an aphrodisiacal glue. The postmaster wearily pushed a pot of paste towards me. I brushed some of its contents onto the stamp. I realized that it was that kind of flour and water paste that I used as a child and was the kind that takes about an hour to set, and then, when dry, reverts to the powder that was the flour in the first place, causing the paper chains to fall apart. I held in the remembered tears, then gave up, returned the stamp, and muttered, “Gracias, senor. I think I’ll wait until I get home.”


DOMINGO
My excuse for not having learned Spanish is that the Mexicans I meet are invariably involved in tourism and English is a very desirable tool in their work. Domingo is one of those people who loves to practice his English on me. “Raymundo,” he says, “what means this word ‘anyways’? These turistas say it all the time - Yada yada yada anyways . . .” I had no idea what it might be in Spanish. I groped through the dictionary and gave him a few meanings but eventually gave up, suggesting he should not talk to tourists that used bad grammar.

I once accompanied Domingo and three fishermen friends to a fish camp for a few days in San Pablo. Domingo filled his time reading little picture books full of lurid tales of machismo, and lewd, rather unpleasant, sexy adventures: illicit lovers in hospital wards and cowboys visiting bordellos. I happened to call them, mockingly as I sometimes do, “silly books” and he loved the phrase. I sometimes bring him more of those books just to hear him say “silly books.”


"PLODDER"


In my drive-along conversations with my camper, I have frequently apologised for not having inscribed a name on the front and rear of the RV, similar to others I see heading towards Baja beaches. Those shiny, expensive tin cans carry names like Prowler, Puma, Challenger, Conquest, Capitalist Rider, Wonder Woman. (I followed Wonder Woman for days on end but never made contact.) Many of the super-size RVs tow a compact car, four wheeler or a complete repair shop with mechanics. My support vehicle is a bicycle strapped on my rear. My own tin can, when I get around to it, will be called “Plodder.” Other names come to mind, “Caracol” (Snail) for one. All I need is one free half hour at the beach . . . some paint . . . and a brush . . . I will do it. Maybe there’s another name. Sloth?

Outwardly, my motor-home has a deliberately shabby appearance. A rotten paint job, rust and grease marks, poor quality bike, chair and table loosely attached at rear. Inside, it is comfortable and practical, at least for a single guy. I like the renovations I made to this casita that was leaking, rusty, and mildewed from years of neglect.

Also, I make a point of keeping as little of value inside (not too difficult) so that if I am robbed I have little to lose. I stash small amounts of cash in various hide-y-holes inside. I sometimes forget where those hide-y-holes were. Later, when I run out of money, I am pleasantly surprised when the toaster reveals something more than toast.

My first vehicle in Mexico was a Ford Econoline van. It was broken into in La Paz. The thieves, and I never saw them They got away with an old laptop but worse, my best set of tools. I recall explaining to the detective at the police station that I could not say for sure that I had locked  the van. He smiled briefly, opened a drawer and pulled out a long thin tool called a Slim Jim, something a thief might use, whether the vehicle is locked, or not. The officer also suggested I had made a mistake parking the van under a shady tree. It might keep the sun off the van, he said, but it gives cover to thieves when they play their games.

My thinking behind downplaying the rig (a professional RVers term) is that thieves would not mark me as a wealthy patron of the more affluent clan, that they would pass me by and aim at one of the many more shiny modern RVs with names like Enterprise, Galactic Super Nomad.


ROAD LANGUAGE
Most of my early blunders in Spanish came from puzzling over road signs while driving. It doesn’t come easy. Fortunately, the Mexican Highways authority provides a complete language course for foreigners. All we have to do is pay careful attention to roadside signs, rather than ignoring them.


The first foreign word one learns when driving through Mexico is peligrosa. I see the black and white sign clearly enough – CURVA PELIGROSA – but I can hardly reach for a dictionary (peligrosa sounds vaguely chemical) because my clenched hands must remain on the steering wheel, and my eyes remain fixed on the mountainous road ahead. If I dared to look to the side, I would have a clear view of the steepness of the terrain and its perils. I could imagine my vehicle and me, both rusted and aged, lying in the valley below. Another sign informs me that whatever these curvas peligrosas are, they will be revealed in 300 meters. Even more information arrives in the form of a yellow and black squiggly arrow that helps to translate the curva part, and one, or more, roadside shrines marking the demise of earlier travellers. Perhaps they were foreigners who maybe failed to translate the sign quickly enough.

The local joke is that the government waits until there is an accident at one of these dangerous curves . . . then they put up a sign.

The second word I learned is TOPE. These speed bumps can turn up anywhere, marked or unmarked. They are often identified by a small knot of locals laughing at the tourists who did not notice the tope until it was too late. Their trailer just went BOOMP into the air. Sometimes, there is a secondary warning, REDUCTOR, which, I am guessing, means chiropractor. Topes sometimes go hand-in-hand with Cruz Azul ambulance staff asking for donations. Watch out for them, the potholes, that is, just as you would for cattle, goats and my driving.

More common in towns, ALTO is treated in the usual manner of four-way-stops, that is, disregarded.

A few more common signs:
SI TOME NO MANEJE Don’t drink and drive

MAS VALE TARDE QUE NUNCO Better late than never!

Signs are often puzzling until you find a dictionary, after the neblina has hit you.
ZONA DE NEBLINA Foggy area

PRECAUCION–ZONA DE GANADON Watch for livestock.
I thought it meant GUSTY because it was always posted in windy, open terrain.

ESTE CAMINO NO ES DE ALTA VELOCIDAD
This is not a high-speed highway. Truth in advertising.

NO MALTRATE LAS SENALES Don’t mess with road signs

ZONA DE VADOS Washes in area

NO DEJE PIEDRAS SOBRE EL PAVAMIENTO
Don’t leave rocks on the highway

And the one that illustrates so well the caring nature of the Mexican people
MODERE LA VELOCIDAD, SU FAMILIA LE ESPERA   
Slow down, your family is waiting for you

I was driving at the time, so I could not write this next sign down. I was distracted by the sight of a shrine at the roadside. I am not sure I got it right.
NO TRANSLATE QUE MANEJE LAS SENALES
I read it as IT IS DANGEROUS TO TRANSLATE THESE SIGNS



SHRINES


Every so often, as I drive along, I get a little song in my head, “I see cactus, I see shrines. I hope that none of them is mine.” There must be hundreds of accident markers along this thousand mile strip of tar. Although some have been placed on straight stretches of highway, most are at points of extreme danger. Of course. I thought, once, like many people, that an interesting picture book might be made up from these accident markers and began to take photographs. I only took one. I was more likely to have my own shrine erected.

I don’t want that to happen, of course, but I can tell you that the most likely way for me to become shrine-worthy, is for me to fail to identify correctly a left turn signal on the vehicle ahead. For not all left turn signals are the same. When the left side flasher on the huge semi begins winking, it could mean one of two things. Either, it is going to turn left, or, the driver is informing you, “It’s safe to pass. Go for it!” I have to wonder how many accident markers are the result of confusion and the need for a split second decision.

The roadside shrines range from the simple and unattended to large, elaborate and bedecked with flowers and visitors. Not all the shrines commemorate an accident. Most of the small villages or ejidos, do not have a church so they will build a small edifice, a place where local people and travellers can place a candle and make their religious observances. These are often, not coincidentally, perhaps, situated by a restaurant or llantera (tire repair). Many are brightly painted and ornately decorated, especially at Christmas, with plastic flowers and candy canes. I never thought of Santa Claus as a Saint but that must be so. At one shrine, I saw over a hundred lighted candles.


SAILING ALONE AROUND THE WORLD
As a solitary traveller, I find it useful to compare my circumstances and views with those of characters I come across in books. One man I met through a book was Captain Joshua Slocum. He also travelled alone but in very different circumstances from my humble visits to California and Mexico.

Joshua Slocum was the first man to sail single-handedly around the world. Although I have not been to sea, other than on ocean liners, his book, aptly entitled, Sailing Alone Round the World, has surely have been an inspiration to every sailor. It certainly inspired me. The journey he made in his self-built 26 foot yawl Spray took three years from 1898 to 1901. It took an amazingly resourceful and skillful skipper to make the journey. “Before his own mast,” as he put it. While I do not pretend that my journeys in a van or RV could be anything like Slocum’s heroic adventures, (though Plodder is also about 26 feet long,) I found several agreeable similarities in the process, if not the scale, of our experiences.

I offer just two examples of Captain Slocum’s spur-of-the-moment decision-making. His initial plan was to sail east from Boston across the Atlantic. This he did, but when he got to Gibraltar at the entrance to the Mediterranean, he was beaten off by pirates. Remembering his goal was to sail around the world and not get killed by pirates, he sailed in the completely opposite direction – west to South America. When he got there, he kept to his plan to avoid the stormy waters of Cape Horn by taking a route through the inland waters of Tierra Del Fuego. Well, he went through all right but was beaten this time by the strong winds and forced to go south the wrong way around Cape Horn–twice. Eventually, he found favorable north winds to complete his trip around the world. He wrote, “Three years. With little chance of mutiny on my ship.”

Captain Slocum’s mission, if you like, was to sail around the world. Mine is just to get there. Now, where there is depends on whatever vain, vague dream happens to be in my head at the time. It could be to meet up with friends in Portland or San Diego. Maybe, visit musicians in La Paz, Baja Sur, a good two thousand miles away from home in Canada.


I notice similarities in the matters of life aboard ship and life driving alone in my little home. They are, of course, the solitude, the constant maintenance and fixing of things, reading, watching people, animals and birds, talking to myself. Sometimes I make spur-of-the-moment but less dramatic decisions like Slocum. For instance, sometimes, I sleep in. Since reading the book, I have found myself making little shelves for spices with string to prevent the jars falling out, similar to his method of keeping books in place.

Like Slocum, I often have to batten down the hatches in order to navigate bumpy washboard roads in the Baja. The dangers one faces are much the same: falling appliances, water leaks, fire–watch that candle–avoiding dangerous traffic. For Slocum it was steamers or whales; for me topes, trucks, buses, potholes. He would call his quiet times, periods of calm, the doldrums. Mine are the times when I pull off the I5 to avoid commuter jams.

Captain Slocum noted that in remote parts of the world he found it unnecessary to lock up his ship and guard items. Closer to home, in the bigger ports, thieving was common and a lookout was essential. I have found exactly the same. In the little villages that I visit, I can leave the doors unlocked and my gear lying around. The only thing that is always padlocked is the battery under the hood. The last one was stolen–in Kelowna, my home town–in Canada.

Captain Joshua Slocum sailed again in the Spray, but failed to return from the sea in 1909. Just as I can make a mental image of the Spray wrecked on rocks in the Pacific, I can picture my “Plodder” at rest at the bottom of a Mexican arroyo, viewed with casual interest by passing Californians speeding to Los Cabos.


JOE
I met a sailor called Joe Miller. He was sleeping in his car in an RV park in La Paz. It was Christmas Eve so I invited him for a drink in my more comfortable vehicle. Joe has had enough of sailing. For many years he has sailed back and forth along the Pacific coastline anywhere from as far north as British Columbia to the Sea of Cortez, That was mostly sailing other peoples boats. Apparently, many boat owners make the North to South journey quite easily but when it comes to returning the vessel north, in another season, they find the going is too tough and hire Joe to do the work.

Like me, Joe was enthusiastic about Joshua Slocum. He had a similar mind for mechanical things, especially chronometers. He repaired pendulum clocks in La Paz. When he fixed their clocks, he told them proudly that they now have exactly the same time as Big Ben in London, England. They thanked him, but said they did not want London time, they wanted Mexico time.

It was Christmas. We both had an interest in old music. Bing Crosby was singing White Christmas on the radio. Joe made a comment that Bing had been one of the first celebrities to get obsessed with the craze for marlin fishing. He led the rush from the States to the Baja, curse it.

Joe now wants his own place on land. He likes Mexico well enough to want to move there. He has acquired an F3 visa that allows him to be a resident, and purchased a lot in Agraria Reforma Numero Uno, an ejido or community-based village (isn’t every village community-based, or should be?) of twenty families. I believe that is similar to the way San Roque began its existence. The government supplies a well and utilities including a conasupa, a community store. Later, I saw signs pointing to various Ejidos. Many of them had no name, referred to by an impersonal number, say, Ejido #29. I think they should have a proper name.


DRIVING ALONE AROUND THE WORLD
with little chance of mutiny in my van
Many people, including myself, are amazed when they learn that I am travelling solo in Mexico, in my small RV. I go it alone because I can drive where I want to, when I want to, without a whole lot of discussion, committees studying maps, deep thought. I did try a partnership once, but the friend I went with is no longer a friend.


I have had short bursts of company. Like the family of mice that made a two thousand mile trip from Vancouver Island to Catavina. It was the sound of a toilet roll being quietly nibbled under the dash that gave them away. They are now illegal aliens–in Mexico! I have also, but on purpose, given rides to human hitchhikers. Some were surfers out of funds, others Mexican militia wanting a ride home. I once had four soldiers asleep in the back of my van, tired from their boring duties at military checkpoints. These young men, in their late teens, are performing a mandatory service for their country of eighteen months.

I drive slowly (as family members frequently remind me) so I know I irritate those drivers that crave speed. Once, in Crescent City, I was proceeding sedately up a long hill when a siren halted my progress. A Highway Patrol officer leaned in through the window and said, “You’re driving too slow!” I refrained from correcting his grammar, then told him I was simply a tourist, enjoying the views of the redwood forests, As I spoke, with minty freshness, I realised he was checking my breath. He realised I was clean; when I asked what made him pull me over, he repeated, “You’re driving too slow!” A little more conversation explained that a car being driven extra slowly at that time of day was a suspicious object and could be in the hands of a drunk driver. I still sometimes hear his voice when a driver passes me after being stuck behind me for far too long. “You’re driving too slow!”


DINO-CACTUS


During one of my explorations (just a walk, really,) into an area of countless cactii of all shapes and sizes, again, I was reminded of Captain Slocum’s adventuring. He was once cast into the sea and was clinging to a drifting dinghy. He wrote about his plight, “Suddenly, I remembered I could not swim.” There, in the desert, I casually leaned against one of the huge cactus named cordon

Suddenly, I remembered that cactii are pointy.

Always a stickler for historical accuracy, I have searched high and low for evidence of the original Da Vinci cactus, the one that is commonly seen in photographs or as a logo for advertisements, inferring exotic desert climes: a can of pineapple, spicy snacks, a dude ranch in Arizona, or, in my case, on a wall in a village near Agua Verdes.


This depiction, a tribute to the past, is true to the original cordon. It has a main trunk and only two arms, one slightly higher and smaller than the other. Two or three million years ago, when cactus were very young, these perfectly formed cactus were seen everywhere. They were known the world over for their size, and religious significance; the trinity of The Golden Reach is today reflected in the posture of Mexican goalkeepers.

It was the only species that existed and its conformity was important to engineers, artists and scholars. Today, of course, despite the vast wastelands of cactus, there remain only mutations, abominations and aberrations of the species. Is that putting it too strongly?

So, I remained curious. Could there be, in that great wasteland, an example of the past waiting to be discovered? On my visits to Baja, over several years, I took on a cause. I have persistently gazed from the driver’s seat, across the empty passenger seat (gulp) into the desert beyond. I have looked and looked. This may account for my slow driving. Many times, along the thousands of miles of cactus-infested countryside, I have explored off-road, hoping that by some miracle (though I am not a religious man), I would come across a throwback to the past, a living Da Vinci cactus. It was a poor endeavor.

What I viewed at a distance as a suitable object invariably evolved miserably into sorry specimens like these:
This cordon (left) was as close as I got to finding a perfect specimen. It is pretty good but one arm has to be much longer.

On the right, another specimen that would be perfect if it had the required number of arms. Maybe I could do something with Photoshop.

I gave up. Moved on. Practiced fishing.

Then, a few weeks later, I was camping in Catavina, that wondrous place where giants have rolled boulders into and around a zillion varieties of cactus. As I opened the camper door, my mind on the possibilities of a satisfying evacuation of my bowels, there it was, young but showing the glory and perfection of its ancient lineage. After years of searching, the elusive cordon had revealed itself. Serendipitously, of course.

I have little more to say. The holy grail was discovered, captured in a throwaway camera, its position noted by GPS. I gave a great Hoorah! and gave full vent to my feelings.

I want everyone to share in this historic event so I am releasing the exact location. Luckily, I have the picture evidence, I hope, – analog, not digital – or, did I throw it away, the camera, I mean, and, if I can find it, the GPS figures. That I wrote on a piece of paper that was close at hand. . . Oh! Crap!


GETTING ON IN YEARS
It was in Crescent City that I was first publicly acknowledged as an old fart. The cashier at the little movie theater asked if I was a senior. I was a mere sixty at the time, and thought, “What nerve. I have another five years to go.” However, when she explained that the senior rate kicked in at fifty-five I felt better. After watching the movie, I asked if I could park in the general parking lot nearby, to which she agreed. Later on that journey, I discovered that many of the big stores like Walmart and KMart provide space in their parking lots for RVs. I guess they like the custom because almost everyone buys something while they are there.


RAMON
I felt uneasy about this young man. He was walking at the side of the road near Mulege carrying a small can as though he needed to find some gas. He was kind of surly and said he had no money because he had lost his job at a restaurant. I took him to Mulege and gave him some money for the spare parts he said he needed.

His call for help reminded me of an experience I had in London when I first started to drive. Young and inexperienced as I was, I should not have even thought about giving someone a ride. Along the Marylebone Road near Paddington Station, I saw a heavy set man carrying a tool bag, sort of walking, but looking around as though he could use some help. I obliged and for the next five minutes, my passenger regaled me with a tale of woe, how he had been laid off, needed rent money, looking for a job, I don’t recall the whole story. Two English pounds later, he thanked me and departed. A funny thing, on many occasions, later, I saw the same man flagging down and getting into cars. Forgive my suspicion but there were a lot of similarities between a plumber in London and a cook in Baja, and it was not just the extended thumb.


LA PAZ


Looking for a change of scene, I drove to the East and the Sea of Cortez. The water is distinctly warmer here. I won’t say pleasantly because I prefer the snap of swimming in cold ocean water–as long as it is not hypothermic. There are sand dollars in the water–that’s nice, but you quickly find out there are also small sting rays that, well, they sting. You have to do the Baja shuffle when going in or out of the water.

This is my first campsite close to La Paz, I have ended up at a deserted spot called El Coyote. It was a case of driving too far, passing by several perfectly good camping spots and stupidly arriving in the dark. I did not know the lie of the land, or the people, so I did not feel safe. I could see a few flickering lights and heard sounds of voices. The next day, after I met the local fishermen and realised I was near their fish camp, I knew I had no cause for alarm. Tonight, I am reassured when I see the lights of the fishing shack a hundred meters away.


SERGIO, THE CLAMS AND THE MUSIC
I was at the beach in La Paz, just looking out at the bay and sipping coffee when a truck parked and the owner got out to get a pail of water from the bay. From the stereo came a familiar combination: the smell of marijuana and loud music. However, the music on the CD player was unusual. It was opera. I inquired about the musical selection. Sergio became very enthusiastic and explained to me in Spanish, with musical examples, about his love for the music. I was offered a puff of his joint. This I considered unwise, because I don’t indulge, especially as a foreigner in Mexico. He muttered quite a lot of defamatory things about policia, which I could not quite catch. I opened some beers. We had a good time listening to the music. He had heard of the famous tenor Beniamino Gigli and was impressed when I told him I had seen him sing at the Royal Albert Hall. Before he left, he clattered around in the back of his truck and offered to sell me some clams from a large, newly packed sack. I bought ten for 20 pesos. Chocolata clams, he said because they were a dark brown colour. They were pretty good. That was his business and that’s what he was doing at the beach–washing the clams–to opera. A happy man.


A PLACE TO PARK WITHOUT LOUD MUSIC
The second night in La Paz I parked a little too close to a bar. Spots like that are always noisy from cars that drive around and around with their speakers booming. The worst is when the bass is boosted, hardly any melody but an insistent, persistent beat, beat, beat, produced by a devilish electronic sampler of some kind. Closing all the windows helps. So do ear plugs. I don’t like ear plugs because I cannot always hear my worst fear which is the sound of a vehicle approaching and stopping. Could be the policia or other official or a bandido. I have never been approached by a bandido, by the way.

Camping for months rather than days can be an exercise in economics. It means I almost never pay for a place to park. I did pay a couple of times. Once was for two days while waiting for a radiator repair. Another time, I stayed at an RV campground in La Paz, just for a treat. Sometimes, it is good for the soul, and the body, to get a proper shower.
I said I would not give any advice. However, in the interests of happy camping I have developed a few rules that I have to offer. These were devised after long experience, without any serendipity whatsoever.



1  Find a camping spot before it gets dark.

2  Use a bicycle to check the outskirts of a town before you get into the centre.

3 In towns, (everywhere, not just in Mexico) look for company. Simply being close to other campers can be reassuring.

4 In Canada or the United States, find a combination of a park with apartments nearby. Avoid condo developments or gated communities. They often have security people who seem to enjoy hassling a body at three in the morning. The same happened in Ensenada once, close to a resort.

5 (Repeated) There’s a camp site whenever you see a Walmart sign from Interstate 5.

There is an exception to my warning not to stay downtown. When the flu stayed with me all the way to Ensenada, I parked for six days downtown, right close to the huge Mexican flag and the bronze statues, without any trouble at all. Food and a pharmacy were close by so all I had to do was sleep off my fever.

I have always resisted camping in Cabo San Lucas. It is too rich for me, not being a celebrity. The harbour is extravagantly loaded with luxury yachts and motor boats. Two of these had room for a helicopter, others boasted jet skis. I would not have been surprised to see a snowmobile. Not my kind of town. Mind you, if I suddenly developed a taste for drinking unlimited shots of tequila followed by viewing myself dead drunk on a giant television screen, I know exactly the bar I would visit.


MARCELLA
There were lighted candles at one of the loncherias in San Jose del Cabo. These restaurants proudly display floral signs with their names: Marcella, Ceysi, Dalia, Marballa, and Rosie. I would take breakfast or lunch at a different one each day. Today, Marcella’s, my favorite lunch spot, was late opening. Their staff and those at all the other eating places and gift shops were sad. Many were crying. I learned that someone had died, a friend of Marcella. Lunch was not quite the same that day.


ALEJANDRO
There is not much call for saxophone players in La Paz. The gringos love the sax but this is a very Mexican town and the restaurants hire either mariachi or pop guitar groups. However, as I walked along the malecon, I heard a band playing quiet ballads. I was happy to sit for a while listening to a smooth tenor playing. It was definitely dinner music. I could not afford to go into the bar that evening.

At the end of a set, an elderly gentleman came out for a smoke. I thought he was the pianist because not too many sax players smoke. However, during our conversation, he revealed his name, Alejandro, and confessed that he had been playing saxophone and smoking since he was fifteen. He joined me on the bench and talked of his life as a musician in La Paz. I noticed that he cleared his throat often. He grinned and told me how lucky he was that he had not had any health problems from the smoking. He listened to my sob story about not having funds and told me I should come back Thursday at five when he would be playing at Happy Hour. After a few more puffs on his cigarette, he heard a musical cue from his partner and returned to the restaurant, coughing.


MUSIC IN LA PAZ
Later that night, camping down in my van, I listening to “The Skaters Waltz” on the radio, played by a Mexican orchestra in a syrupy, ostentatious fashion. It is interesting the way many European songs are altered, sometimes grossly, to suit the national taste, especially on television. Violins are overemphasized in mariachi style, trios of clarinets, saxes and trumpets in showy costumes are hired as much for their dancing skills as their musicianship. On popular recordings, big guitars, (guitarrons) and tubas that are the mainstay of the street band, fit nicely into the requirements of a car stereo or boom-box. The louder the better. Often, the only sound heard from a distant car radio is the deep boomp-di-boomp-boomp of that bass, or a tuba. I have not yet identified the different styles. I hear the words nortena, cumbia, mariachi, ranchera, banda. but they are as different as blues, ragtime and Dixieland.


A PASSION FOR MUSIC


In 1998, I realised that for the past sixty years, I had been playing a variety of musical instruments in mediocre fashion and always “by ear.” I decided it was time to learn to play one properly, that is, by reading sheet music. I drove south in my van, stopping at rest stops, practicing my saxophone, and studying a book entitled How To Read Music.

After about two weeks, taking my time (did I tell you I drive slowly?) I arrived at a great camping spot near La Paz, overlooking the beautiful Bahia de Los Muertos (Bay of the Dead.) It was a little crowded for my taste, but there was room for my van in among with a couple of dozen trailers and campers ranged along the ridge. This is where I enjoyed the benefits of an unexpected musical experience.


LYNDA
I was enjoying a beer and an ocean view, when I was surprised to hear the sound of a saxophone. I jumped on my bike and chased down the source of the music. I discovered a woman playing Blue Skies. I listened to her for a while and then introduced myself, saying, “Guess what? I also have a tenor sax.” I explained my mission to read music. In turn, the woman, Lynda, told me she could read music very well. but found improvising extremely difficult. It seemed that where I needed to get my ear out of the way and pay more attention to the sheet music, Lynda needed to switch from seeing the notes on the page to hearing them. It seemed we had arrived at a beach in Mexico from different ends of the musical spectrum.

We became friends, musically speaking, and spent a couple of weeks practicing together. I was learning to read, painfully slowly. For her part, Lynda seemed stuck in her attempts to find the notes she wanted. Being of an analytical mind, my question for her was. "When you’re trying to improvise, what do you see inside your head, in your mind’s eye?”

Lynda answered, “I see the notes on the page. I have memorized them.”

I said, “That can’t be good. It’s hard to not remember something you have memorized so well. Try to see something else. Anything but the notes. Maybe blackness. You could replace those images of the score with something appropriate to the song you're playing. If it's Blue Skies, imagine pictures of blue skies, or the ocean, or blue rabbits, anything other than the notes. Try closing your eyes while you play."

I am not sure if it helped but something must have clicked because a few days later she suggested we play at an open stage night in La Paz. We plucked up our courage, went to the marina cafe and did just that, managing to get through our Blue Skies duet quite well. We even got applause. Lynda stayed for another half an hour but I stayed to see what the rest of the evening would be like. Thanks to Lynda for getting me to the jam to play. She was the one that found out about it and got me over my reluctance to play in public.



JAM NIGHT
The house band at the marina cafe consisted of Jorge, leader and singer with a red electric guitar, Juan Angel, a small man with a big bass guitar, and Manuel with the smallest but smartest drum kit in the world. They were all Mexican and all had day jobs: Jorge at an agriculture office; Juan Angel is a maternity doctor–He said he plays once a week for three hours just to relax; Manuel the drummer was close to retirement but he just laughed away whatever work he does.

The band was strong on American pop and blues aimed at the mostly gringo patrons of the bar. Some of the melodies I heard in Mexico would have a twist to them, lose a beat here and there, or change the melody. The grupa that I heard coming from the Naval Officers Club across the bay was playing Rose Marie in a most unusual way, as though to avoid copyright problems.

The rest of the evening was great. A guitarist asked me if I knew I Can’t Get Started. I said yes and he took off at a furious speed, much faster than Bunny Berrigan’s recording that I knew. I couldn’t keep up but it was a great learning experience. Another guitarist called Jeff sang soulful songs, some I knew, like Blueberry Hill. His girlfriend Carrie played bass and sang a blues tune, bravely, in public for the first time. Like me, she was nervous and sang too softly.

Other musicians took the stage and jammed. There was Peppy, a singer and harmonica player. I took an instant dislike to him because I don’t have his kind of confidence. He has the ability, or nerve, to breeze in with his harmonica and repertoire of songs, take over the mike, introduce himself, do all the things I would love to do but I am scared to do, and he is not that good a musician.


DWAYNE
The trumpeter is an interesting character. Dwayne is from San Francisco, a small man with a big mustache. He is a busker, drives (and lives in) a camouflaged VW van. He keeps his trumpets and trombone in the van and lives in daily fear of being robbed. That has happened. He lost his sound equipment and a keyboard. He knows the hurt. Dwayne is a real showman, always “on”, a flourishing but expert trumpeter. The high point of his show is to play two trumpets at the same time, not just the same notes but one for the melody, one for harmony. I saw Dwayne later in San Diego where he was busking at an outdoor restaurant. He is a show-boater. Flourishes all the time.

I joined in with songs I knew, like Tequila, Girl From Ipanema, Pretty Woman (Juan Angel did a great falsetto takeoff of someone or other.) That bit in Tequila “Pa pa pa pahm pah” always gives me fingering trouble. So many drunken voices have changed it over the years.

The band got going with Satin Doll. Jorge pointed at me and announced, “Tenor sax.” It was a significant moment for me, recognition that I somehow belonged. I started my solo well, but screwed up by forgetting to repeat the first eight bars. Yecch! Could not hear myself well, have to play louder. It was a low point from which I could only go up!


JORGE
Jorge the leader said I could play with the band any time. I think he likes the idea of the sax. The subject of payment will never arise. If it does, I will tell him I should pay him for the free lessons.

I played at the cafe on their quiet nights. I would hide outside in the palms, warming up the sax, playing along until I heard a song in a key I could handle. I would then run in and play a chorus or two before the song ended. I enjoyed playing with the trio of guitar, bass and drums. Too much. Apparently. I was too keen, wanted to play all the time. Jorge had been looking serious during one of the numbers. He took me aside and told me two things; “Please, Raymundo, do not play while I am singing,” and “Go away and practice.” I responded with polite acknowledgment by saying, “Okay, Officer” as though I had been cautioned for poor driving. I felt hurt, though, like a child chastised unfairly. Jorge kindly said he wanted me to feel good about the issue and did not throw me out. In fact, he threw me a bone. “Let’s do The Girl From Ipanema.” Plus, there were encores of Pretty Woman.

I returned to the Marina Cafe two years later, thinking I might play there again. I was much more experienced. Times had changed, though. Jorge was still there but instead of his trio he had one of those sequencers with electronic drums and backing instruments to fill the room. Shame! I did play my saxophone with Jorge a couple of times but (obviously) things can never be the same.

Years later, I am still practicing. I can read a score now, not always able to keep up to speed but at least I can work out a song in my own time when I need to.

That trip to Mexico, and more time spent playing alone, gave birth to creating some kind of network for musicians like myself. I thought there must be a whole lot of people who want to get together with other musicians, but they either don’t know how, or are too shy to “get out there” and do it. I call them the “basement musicians” though they might be playing in a bedroom, garage, woodshed or closet.


BAHIA DE LOS MUERTOS


Two years later, I returned to Bahia De Los Muertos again. Some major changes had occurred, not all for the best. The campers I had met before were mostly fishing fanatics from north of the border. They had formed a community of campers over many years, returning to their same spots and adding amenities: a trash disposal site, toilet areas, even hiking trails. There was hardly any litter. It was clean and well appreciated. However, a few days after I arrived, we were visited by uniformed federales and lawyers representing the owners of the property. They informed us we were camping on private land and must leave. The campers were stunned. Some protested, saying they refused to be turfed out, that they had their rights. (Really?) Their appeals were ignored. Two days notice was all that was given, so under the threat of police charges, everyone moved out
Today, I arrived again at the Bay of the Dead, only to see that it had been renamed Bay of Dreams (Bahia de Suenos.) I suspected this to be the work of a foreigner. There were other significant differences. A security guard was stationed at a gate leading to a new resort. Only fishermen are allowed access to the bay and the bay had been renamed, unofficially, I suspect. A few hardy souls had managed to camp on the beach by walking or driving at low tide. To further gringo-ize the beautiful spot, a large touristy building has been erected called the Giggling Marlin Beach Club. I was grouchy about this, because now there is just the Giggling Bloody Marlin and a few fishermen. I declined to buy a beer.


TWO ACCIDENTS
The first accident was spectacular. On my return from the beach I saw ahead of me a procession of flashing lights and vehicles moving very slowly. Although the road was dead straight, I could see a large truck had somehow slid sideways, overturned, and spilled its load of heavy fence posts. There were dozens scattered like matchsticks all over the road. Clearing the posts had begun by hand and a wrecker vehicle was approaching in the distance but it was obvious it would be a while before traffic was able to get on its way to La Paz. Weekend holiday-makers had been forced to stop, and were sounding their horns in frustration. I knew my journey to the city would be very slow, on this one and only road. I decided, especially as it getting dark, to find a place to camp for the night. This is when the second accident occurred. This time, it was all my fault.


THE MEXICAN NATURE OF HOSPITALITY
I managed to turn around to get away from the accident on the highway, and found a dirt road into the desert. I had every expectation of finding a cosy spot to camp for the night. It was cactus country and after a mile I saw a clearing that looked good. Because it was getting dark, and I did not want to continue looking for the supremely perfect place, I made up my mind. I reversed back a bit, saw a good approach point, and then, I completely went out of my mind. I misjudged the shoulder, one back wheel dropped with a violent bang, the storage tanks and differential bottomed out and I was up cactus lane without a tow truck.

I worked fast, but vainly, at several solutions. The jack was ineffective, the shovel diminutive and I was stuck in the one place in Mexico where there were no large rocks to stick under the wheel, should I manage to get it raised at all. It was getting dark. I gave up after an hour and started to trudge to the highway to get some kind of help. I had no phone, limited Spanish (with a bad accent) and the nearest town was twenty kilometers away. There had been no traffic at all on this side road. I was prepared to just sit there overnight and deal with the problem the next day. However, I had walked only a hundred meters when I heard a vehicle and, looking back, saw lights from a long way off, coming my way.

Eventually, two cars full of merrymakers came my way, just stopping in front of my flashing hazard lights. I explained what had happened using two words I did know: stupido and gringo. There was laughter and immediate desire to help. One man held an imaginary joint to his lips and made sucking motions. “No fumar” was my apologetic reply, but I had the sense to pull out a six-pack of Modelo. The guys went to work with gusto and my limited tools. They declared they would pull me out, something I thought impossible, with the wheel being so low in the hole. After much excavation and discussion of the mechanics of the operation, a rope was attached to one of their four-wheel-drives. The rope broke the first time but the next pull was successful. The man who pulled was extra keen, more sober than the rest, and it struck me that what spurred his enthusiasm was that my RV was right in their path to more partying. The job being done, I thanked everyone and hugged the women in gratitude. The men looked a bit snarly so I hugged them as well. I was close to tears with relief that one of my fears of travelling alone, that of being stuck absolutely nowhere, had been miraculously dealt with. I was alone again, but my spirits were lifted.

I slept well that night. First thing in the morning I heard clattering, even banging noises against my vehicle. I did not have to look outside. I could smell what was out there.


GOAT
I know the smell of goat. I recognise it well. I once spent a wet winter on Vancouver Island looking after a few goats. One of them was a billy with a devilish nature. He was big, black and white, scruffy as hell. The name Diablo suited him. He was a contrary animal and difficult to approach. These goats had not been looked after very well. Goats need to be on rocky ground to keep their hooves short. As a consequence some had foot rot. It is difficult to control when the ground is wet and muddy. I managed to get close enough to Diablo to trim his hooves and apply a copper sulphate solution. This helped the goats and gave my spirits a lift. The smell of goat is at its most pungent in the billy, male of the species. The down side was that my close contact with Diablo and his pals lasted well after the veterinary treatment.

Now, here in Mexico, the whiff of goat is in the air again. I look outside, and see twenty goats of every size and color grazing, butting each other in friendly fashion. Some are even scratching themselves against the vehicle. I dare not get too close so I make noise and the frolicking creatures scatter. Later in the day, I found myself sniffing at the tires, the doors and, even after thorough cleaning, find myself lowering my nose to the chopping board, the sink, even the toilet, checking that the smell of goat is gone. But, I wonder if, like a mouse I know, it ever really leaves.


MORE CAMPING IN LA PAZ
Another night, on trumpeter Dwayne’s recommendation, I drove a short way out of La Paz to camp at what he called the old hotel. It was not that, just one of those unfinished building projects that abound in Mexico. Its six stories were in the process of decay, and empty, save for the seabirds soiling the balconies and the aimless flapping of drapes at open windows. From the outside I counted two hundred and twenty rooms. There was a swimming pool, also in disrepair and a sign proclaiming. “International Yacht Club and Marina.”

Sergio (he of the clams) told me the restaurant and bar on the ground floor had been burned months ago. Strangely, there were five tennis courts in good condition being used by some Americans. The water at the beach was clear and clean but very shallow. Maybe lack of good moorings caused the enterprise to fail. Right next door was a smaller hotel with bright, white walls and red bougainvillea, patrons at breakfast, seemingly flourishing. It looked good, reminded me of Africa.

Because of being asked to leave the illegal camp at Bahia de Los Muertos,and also because of the theft, I was feeling fearful. Dwayne had moved on but the place was quiet, there was water, and I was glad to camp there.


FUTBOL TALK
I like Spanish words that are easily translatable. There is a storefront building just off the main square in La Paz. On the window is a hand-lettered sign “Edgar Allan Poe Club de La Paz.” I can translate that kind of information easily. I was not so quick to learn it is a chess club. The reference to Poe is explained by his interest in the game, or rather, his essay “Malzel’s Chess Player” published in 1836, in which he attempted to expose an automaton invented by Malzel as a hoax.

I enjoy chess but I have a more than a passing interest in the game of soccer or, when in Mexico, its international name, football. I have found the simplest way of starting my conversations with Mexicans is a simple question – Futbol?

One such exchange occurred as I was listening to RADIO LA PAZ, trying to catch the scheduled kickoff for the football match between Mexico and the U.S.A. Rafael suggested we go to a sports bar near the marina. For the price of a couple of beers and a burrito we can watch the game surrounded by Mexican aficionados. I had a bet with one of them. I chose the USA just to make it interesting. Rafael does not have much English, as I have almost no Spanish but he could express him clearly on the topic at hand. He said the United States is where the worst football in the world is played, that American TV commentators are useless, that they don’t know one bit about the beautiful Game, and what’s more, they don’t want to know. These were strong arguments and I had to agree. I told Rafael I was once in Ocean Beach, watching a World Cup quarterfinal match. The giant screen was tuned to a Spanish language station. The bartender, thinking to do us a favour, switched to an English channel. The whole bar, American and Mexican fans alike, roared disapproval and the channel was switched back.

The game today was a good one. I happily lost my bet and said goodbye to Rafael and his pals. Our paths crossed later, on a Thursday evening, when I watched a local game played not on the green turf of a Mexico City stadium but on the sandy dirt of a local sports club. It was after half-time when I arrived. I was surprised find myself sitting next to Rafael in the stands. He was wearing football kit in the same colors as one of the teams. That’s enthusiasm, I thought. He looked very dejected, his head in his hands, not at all enjoying the game. I asked if he was sick. He said no, but that he had been playing in the game, committed a foul and was given a carta roja. That meant he was sent off for the rest of the match. We shared beer and peanuts to make the game more passable. Coincidentally, we met one more time, the very next day. I was helping out in an English conversation class for Mexican hotel employees. Rafael did not expect to see me there. When I told him he would be red-carded if he failed the class, he got it.

Boys play futbol everywhere: in parking lots, at the beach, anywhere they can find space. They are high on clothing, have good skills; fouling is common and cleverly done. There is no grass, the sandy pitches raise clouds of dust.


ANGEL
While eating dinner at the fishing beach, a uniformed man asked me about my van. I thought I was in for trouble when he introduced himself as the Port Captain. However, he was friendly. He just wanted to compare vehicles since he also owns a Ford Econoline van. Angel and I talked about common auto problems. I had a spare interior light fixture in the van so I gave it to him. He was very interested in my Ford repair manual. I almost gave him that, too, but decided my need was greater than his. He invited me to call at his office in downtown La Paz. This I did. It turned out he was not the Port Captain at all, just a junior official. Later, he visited me at the beach with his wife and three little girls. I shared my dinner with them and let the kids play with my tape recorder. They recorded their voices and giggled a lot.



ESPERANZA
I have been learning Spanish slowly and with difficulty. One morning in La Paz, I was attracted to a sign that said Breakfast Special. After parking my bike, I sat in the forecourt of the restaurant and pondered the menu. I never really study a menu well, often ordering thoughtlessly and then being disappointed. A charming family arrived. As they sat, I said, “Hola!” in a pleasant way and gave a slight wave of my hand. I like to make contact with people and some body movement helps. A smile does not always work, often producing a blank stare. A wave will trigger a reflexive response. In this case, I got the wave and a free Spanish lesson. The members of the family responded with their ‘Buenas dias’ and ‘Hola!s’ and a couple of “Hi!s” but the older of two girls, aged about twelve, said, quite correctly, “It’s ‘ola!, not Hola!”
“Thank you,” I responded. “I must be still trying to say it the way it is spelled.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “My name is Esperanza.” She told me she went to school in La Paz and was fluent in both English and Spanish.

Later, I thought of several responses I might have made to that twelve-year-old. I could have said, ‘ave some ‘erbs on yer ‘ash browns. Or ‘ave a ‘appy day. My pettiness came from my upbringing in Eliza Doolittle Land, where aitches are dropped or added, in a variety of ways, depending on who you are talking to. It’s a class thing.


JOSE LUIS
In La Paz, I often parked by the fishing pangas close to the naval station. At first sight, when I saw him watering plants, I thought Jose Luis was a gardener, but he is a veteran fisherman and has two pangas of his own. Not wanting to retire, he has other pescaderos to work his boats. He is happy to keep the boat area tidy and to watch for anyone casting too long an eye on an outboard motor or other equipment. He spent another whole day doing a fiberglass repair. His coworker was kept busy sanding and drinking something he called loco. This man said he had been in the military in Chiapas and showed me, with actions, that he liked guns very much.



INCIDENT IN LA PAZ


I was parked, squatting, if you like, at the fishermen’s beach in La Paz. The bright lights of the naval base shine brightly, keeping the boats and motors illuminated. A watchman, though rarely awake, is an added safety measure. I have become used to vehicles rattling by. Sometimes, a car stops, a couple wander to the beach, to smoke or cuddle, and wander back. The fishermen know me and are friendly. They let me get water from their tap and occasionally give me a fish. Perhaps, they regard me as an extra pair of eyes.

On this Saturday night, my van was the magnet for of an incident. It was a public holiday and there had been noisy activity downtown. I had sat in with the band at the marina until midnight and then walked the few yards to the van and got into bed. I heard late night drivers whizzing past me on their way home. At 1.40 pm–I noted the time–I was wakened by a vehicle that stopped alongside. I heard voices and a running engine. Peeking through the curtain, I saw several khaki-clad men clustered close to the van preparing to do, well, something. It was as if they were being trained in some way by an officer. The tailgate of the smart white pickup said POLICIA. I shouted something ridiculous like “Hola! Can I help you? Esta problema?” The men were utterly surprised. They stopped whatever preparations they were making and jumped into the truck. As they drove furiously away, someone laughed and shouted, “Goodnight.”

Several thoughts ran through my mind during the next couple of hours as I lay awake, once again feeling scared and unsafe. I thought, “Is there nowhere I can feel safe?” I was almost ready to hightail it out of La Paz and back to Canada. If it were not for the music at the marina and La Carnaval coming up in a few days, I would have left. Who were these men? Were they Saturday night rent-a-cops? What were they doing to my van? Stealing the hub caps? Prized items here. Drain the tank? Gasoline is expensive. Might they jack up the van and swipe the wheels? With me inside? They were crazy not to think there might be someone sleeping in an obviously camperized vehicle with a bike on the back! They were unlikely to hassle me for parking. That rarely occurs. Just yesterday, Rudolfo from the Port Captain’s office, greeted me warmly and invited me to stay more safely at his house. I wished I had taken up his offer. I could not help but mentally run through the tales I had heard of corruption and accusations against police. Like the three officers arrested a few days ago in Guerrero Negro. A body was found in the trunk of their police car. They said it was a heart attack victim they were taking to the station. However, the autopsy revealed signs of torture and death by strangulation.

Instead of losing more sleep, I started imagining other far-fetched reasons for the disturbance, like, the guys were from the Ford Econoline Club and simply using my van as a background for a group photograph.



AT A GAS STATION


One time, after crossing the border into Mexico, I filled the van and gave the jolly fellow at the gas station a five hundred peso bill. He presented me with change, two red fifties. We chatted a bit and he was very helpful when I asked for a water fill-up for the RV. Then he went away, only to come back with two red hundred peso bills, saying he had given me the wrong change. I don’t believe now that I was being cheated, he was just correcting a mistake, but I thought, at the time, that it was a possibility.

Isn’t it awful that when I go to a foreign country I expect to be cheated? I think it is really just fear of the unknown. Like it takes a while before I stop checking my wallet is still there, that I have not had my pocket picked. I had the same uncomfortable feeling when I had a radiator repaired in La Paz. As usual, there was no common language. When I asked how much the repair would be, the proprietor of the makeshift repair yard wrote the amount with his finger in the dust on my windshield. A few days later, when it was time for me to pay. I gave him 2000 pesos, which was I thought I remembered him writing on the windshield. He shook his head and said it was 3000 pesos. I firmly believed he had written two thousand, yet when he showed me the bill for the repair, it was clear it had to be the larger figure. I was totally in the wrong and apologised, again using the windshield to explain my misunderstanding. Feeling like a jerk, I found more money and drove away with a happy truck.


MICHAEL
How about Michael? Another man who made me feel uneasy, pressed a few of my buttons. He is a Canadian, (like me,) sarcastic, (again, like me,) quick-witted and has a memory like a steel trap (Pass.) He reminded me of a sar’nt major in the British army. To underwrite his vacation in Baja he brought eight hundred paperback books (in English) into Mexico by hiding them at the bottom of a friend’s big blue camper bus. Selling the books was a dead loss because there was a free lending library of English books in Cabo San Lucas. To help him out I used my van to carry three loads of books to a shop in Cabo. They were left on consignment with a shop called Second Chance. I doubt if they sold very many of them.

Four days with Michael was a real test. His big ambition is to earn a living travelling in Central America as an interpreter or linguist. He speaks excellent Spanish and wanted to help me learn. However his pedantic and sarcastic manner of instruction pissed me off. One day, I asked him not to correct me any more or teach me any Spanish. I wanted to learn, as he does, from the Mexicans.

At the camp site, we played games of double solitaire. We were both short of money so we gambled for postage stamps. I did not play well, hated losing nine stamps at cards. Michael had a gloating manner when he won that made me feel very competitive and mean. This contact with Michael, brief as it was, made me think about Victoria, the other world, back home. Why would I come all this way for supposed peace and quiet, only to find conflict and unpleasantness? Fortunately, in small doses.


EL TORMENTO


Twice during my visits to Baja, I have experienced storm warnings and their consequences. The first was six years ago. It used to be that people prepared for weather in its best and worst kinds in a time-honoured way of watching the sky and ocean, talking to each other and taking necessary actions to beat off the expected excesses of wind and water. Fishing was suspended, every boat brought ashore. Ropes were flung over roofs and anchored in the ground or even to a car. Windows and doors were boarded up.

There was quite a difference in how this last storm, officially named JIMENA, was regarded. Internet reports and cellphones confirmed people’s suspicions that it would be a bad one. It was described as a Category 5 hurricane. It looked like it, too, on the internet. Somehow, the electronic media put an unusual slant on things. It was if an unplanned event, like Christmas or Independence Day, had been announced. Maybe, it was my foreigner’s eyes, but It seemed that people knew exactly what to do, did everything they needed, survived the storm, had a bit of a party, talked about this year’s event (was it better than last Christmas?,) whether, and when, they should go back to fishing.

Thankfully, as it turned out, we were on the fringes of the storm. Towns further south, like San Ignacio and Mulege, were pounded. Within a few hours, the citizens of Bahia Asuncion were almost back to normal.



BEACH ACCESS FOR SOME


The road that runs along the coast, from San Jose del Cabo to Cabo San Lucas, is about twenty miles long but public access to beaches, that is, for locals, is very restricted. A Mexican, without a very good reason, would be denied access. Yet a gringo like me could walk through the entrance to a hotel, go to the beach and swim. There is, however, a few miles west of San Jose del Cabo, a playa pueblo. I stopped at this public beach several times. It's great for swimming and there are showers but it is too far for folks from San Jose to visit without a car. For once, the parking lot is much too large for the number of visitors. Some areas are overgrown with grass. The main activity occurs when the more advantaged citizens arrive in their flashy vehicles and begin socializing. Pickup trucks with chrome accessories are popular in such a gathering place.

At a quieter time, I was there one evening cooking on my portable stove. Two police officers, LUIS and ERNESTO, drove their official car over and tried to squeeze twenty dollars out of me, offering security. When I explained that I had no money budgeted for that purpose, they seemed to understand, then asked if my rusty old bicycle was for sale. I said it was my back-up vehicle for returning to Canada if the van should fail. They laughed, accepted beers and I brought up the subject of private beaches. They were sympathetic; they said that even they could go to those beaches only if they wore their uncomfortably hot uniforms. They accepted that the practise was unfair but said it was an unfortunate outcome of laws regarding private property.



A NIGHT AT THE MOVIES
The last thing I expected to pull up alongside my campsite one afternoon was another Econoline van. Its roof was heaped with canvas tarps, metal poles and a few dilapidated cinema seats. I watched the van disgorge its contents, including a seven family members of all ages. What do you know? A movie theater had come to Todos Santos. I was intrigued to see the building of the show. A sign, Cines Paraiso Familia, was placed at the roadside.

By dusk, twenty, or more, folks joined me at the entrance and the show began. Or, rather, it did not, because in typical Mexican style, it was forty minutes late, giving lots of time to sell snacks: elotes, (corn-on-the-cob,) peanuts, those pork crackling things with hot sauce, and bottles of Fanta. A large screen and video projector were set up. Chairs and benches had been added to the velvet ones.

The management insisted I sit in one of the best red velvet seats. Admission was only seven pesos, about seventy cents, and well worth the money. It was a long program beginning with cartoons and an ancient newsreel. These little films allowed for plenty of intermissions and more food sales. Little kids sat on the floor at front. I would rather they had not been allowed to see the feature, Las Mujeres Diabolicas. Three voluptuous women, all of whom had been molested in their teens, had made a solemn pact to avenge themselves, (diabolically) by killing all the men who had abused them. I was not sure I wanted to watch the gory scenes, either, but I thought it would be rude to give up such a comfortable seat. The audience watched in utter silence and with grave attention, although the corny plot made me feel like laughing at times. At the end, most of the kids and some of the adults were asleep. It was surreal walking out from the dark tent into a bright, moonlit evening.


NIGHT NOISES
Another tropical storm, Olaf, has been lurking. My tent withstood it well during the night, but the noise of the tent rippling in the wind kept me awake. Funny, because I don't notice the much louder surf noise at all. The sounds made by waves and rocks clashing together is very loud. Barking dogs and coyotes, much-too-early roosters and cicadas add to the symphony. Then, at 5 a.m., too early for me, I hear the clanking of church bells. Bells should not clank, but these do. This is a signal I knew would be followed by the sight of a ghostly procession passing by in the moonlight. I watched the parade of religious observants from just a few yards away. Their gentle chanting and sounds of guitars merged into the other noises of the night. I have seen and heard it before. It is very calming. I am still an atheist.

A noise that captures my attention more acutely than any other occurs in that almost-asleep condition that residents of Pearl Harbor must have found themselves in just before the dive bombers arrived. It is the high-pitched whine of an attack mosquito. One solitary mossie can have a greater psychological impact than a squadron. I am not much of a target because I cover myself with a sheet from toe to neck, place a blindfold over my eyes and wear a woolly cap over my balding pate. Nevertheless, the marauder seems confident it can find a filling station. I used to think mosquitoes were attracted by the blood of its victim, especially when it is as fine a vintage as mine, but I learned they are really attracted to carbon monoxide. This means I have to cease breathing. During the attack I usually fall asleep. Hours later, I hear the mosquito again, only its whine will be pitched much lower. It is the buzz of a bug full of blood, about to crash. I hope.

To come full circle with uninvited guests, I have a mouse in the house. I heard a familiar sound, looked under the bed and discovered a raton munching on a huge tostada. My first thoughts – murder by trap or poison – were hampered by conscience. For three nights, I constructed elaborate Raton Rescue live capture devices. None of them worked. One dark night. I found myself transporting a cardboard box containing a mouse to its new home, a half mile away, that of someone I was not too fond. When I tipped out the contents of the box, nothing emerged. On returning to the camper, all I could hear was the noise of tostada crunching. Oh! Well. It is still in the casita. If it got in, it can get out.


FEELINGS WHILE TRAVELLING
I read another book, as different from Joshua Slocum’s “Sailing Alone” as it could possibly be. In the public library it would be found under Philosophy or Self-Help. The book is “Ishmael” by Daniel Quinn. The following notes I made indicate that maybe I was someone who needed help, even the kind I usually shy away from.

I wrote: Today I am feeling awry, discombobulated. I have been wondering if my morning sick stomach feeling is connected with the stress tablet. I went on to worry that if I stopped taking the stress tablets it might cause an even more upsetting feeling.

I feel like fleeing. If it was not for the music opportunity on Friday, that’s tonight, I would head off and practice much, much more. My resolve to write has weakened. Yet I am doing a lot of thinking. Do I have to think to write, but not to play? Think first, write later. Not true. Yet some of my best stuff – music or writing – comes when I free flow.


So, I have been reading this New-Agey kind of book called “Ishmael.” A story like this about a talking gorilla and his thoughts – that can take a couple of reads, for sure. Anyway, it made me think about a few things. Like, I have been trying to understand how the Takers and Leavers of X’s story fit into today’s Culture (Mother). And I have questions.

1 Why do people travel? Is it to see the lands that have been conquered on their/our behalf?

2 Do Leaver communities have a concept of winning? Do they play games where one side wins and the other loses? Are chess and football two extremes of physical and mental assertiveness? Do the daily reminders of aggression we encounter mean we have assumed the role of being conquerors–of the world? Will the earth lie bleeding at our feet. Is it already so?
3 Another question as I walked around the marina this morning, looking at the yachts, cruisers, toys of the very wealthy and a few not-so-rich. Are they facsimiles or reminders of war canoes, galleons? Do we cling on to those memories, stories of exploration and conquest? My own European roots: English colonization, Spanish conquistadors, Dutch, Vikings?

No wonder the natives (leavers) in the New World were ferocious and hostile to visitors. They knew the principle of keeping one’s own territory. What about smiling, welcoming Hawaiians? Had they had their own agricultural revolution? Did they already know about appropriation of land and become gregarious as well as agrarian? All that was needed was a stake, like the gold rush. People knew what and where they were. They did not need to find another homeland or farm to plant out.

Where do I fit into this? Understanding comes sixty years too late. But sixty is a teeny, tiny fraction of man’s existence?

The word UNNECESSARY comes up.
Crime is Unnecessary Violence is Unnecessary Drugs are Unnecessary
Theft is Unnecessary Banking is Unnecessary Owning land is Unnecessary

Should I:
1 Stop needing to visit new places?

2 Stay where I seem to have ended up – Kelowna? Or, Victoria?

3 Find a small community away from Mother Culture?

4 Give up competition myself - soccer, squash even watching sports?

5 Give up my toys: van for travel, scooter for convenience, bicycle for exercise?

How often we say, “It’s part of our culture.” or “It’s the real world”

It is not the real world. it is our fabricated sense of the world.

If we fabricated it, we can un-fabricate it.

If I fabricated it, I can re-fabricate it.

Make of that what you will. I should read “Ishmael” again. Maybe not. And what’s that about stress tablets? It’s a long time from when I first picked up Jim on the road through Baja, to now, camping once again in Bahia Asuncion. Maybe, Jim was my Ishmael in my story.



HOLY CLAMS


When El Tormento arrived with its heavy swells and tidal goings on, there were high hopes that a few of those big Pismo clams would be thrown up on the beach. In Bahia Asuncion, many residents could be seen exploring the beaches at low tide, but without finding any treasures of the surf.

A few days after the storm, I took an early walk along the beach. Really early, break of day. Way off, I saw three shapes walking towards me. Bicycles! was my first thought. No. Horses? Both possibilities, seen before. No. Three nuns dressed in gray returning along the beach, the one in the middle carrying a pail full of good sized clams. They were wearing heavy sensible shoes and did not appear to have been wading. Clammers usually get wet for their efforts, but these nuns were bone dry. I wondered if they had had help of a special kind.

And God knows what time they got up in the morning.


WILD LIFE TUESDAY


I don’t know what biology is at work that encourages millions of sardines to visit Bahia Asuncion at this time of year, but these small fish not only fulfill their role as victims of bigger fish, they sure attract a lot of attention from other-world predators. Big bullies, too. Humans arrived in their pangas, fishermen netting them for bait in their lobster traps. They work in pairs, the first boat searching with a lookout in the prow. He bangs loudly on the boat signalling the whereabouts of the sardines. When he gets all his sardines in a row, the partner boat starts dragging the net in a wide circular fashion. As the men do their work, another participating species arrives. A hundred or more sea lions chomping and barking in a feeding frenzy. Their leaping and diving is a fine sight. They appear to be having fun as they feed, and, if that is not enough action for the wild life photographers on shore (there aren’t any really) two or three hundred peliganos doing their kamikaze thing, bulleting into the water, gulping down their fishy treasure.

All in all, it‘s an eating fish kind of day. To round it off, my kayak fishing friend, Kevin, returns with a calico bass and gives me a pair of nice filets. What can I do but add myself to the frenzy? Fried in garlic and butter works for me. But I’ve run out of butter.

NEVER AGAIN
Too bad. It looks like my love affair with Baja California Sur is doing what love affairs often do, they come to an end. The telling sign is that, at last, I got down to putting these notes together into this final form. Other indications are that my last visits have not been in a vehicle, but by air, train and bus. That means I am slowing down a bit. There is not so much camping involved. I have returned to Bahia Asuncion many times. That is where my casita has ended up. I never got around to painting “Plodder” on the RV. That tells me something, too. I love the warm ocean, the sun and the quietness of this friendly town and its people, but I do not get enough of my kind of music and I am starting to miss some of the creature comforts I have in Canada.

Many times, on my long and, sometimes lonely, return drive to Canada, I shake my head over the steering wheel, saying to myself “Never again.” Now, I am taking the bus and train back home. The love affair, with its share of excitement, disappointments, expectations, happiness and misery, roses and thorns, bougainvillea and cactus, is over. However, to leave the Baja I found by chance will take deliberate action

So, when will I leave? I have already run out of butter. Will my razor blades last? Must I grow a beard? Will I quit when the strip of tar finally connects with Bahia Asuncion? Will it be when the water is too cold for swimming?

Darned if I know. I had better end with a cliche.
Ray Turner    November 2009

• Home > 
• BAJA BY CHANCE  >