Losing Control in Baja - Pescadero, Baja California Sur, Mexico
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Stumble It!Pescadero, Baja California Sur, Mexico
During my move from Portland, Oregon to Simi Valley, California, I stopped in to visit my aging hippie aunt living on a goat farm in the mountains. She told me that, after all her years of wandering, she had finally found her "geo-center" in the mossy hills of southern Oregon. Somewhat skeptical, I was nonetheless fascinated by the idea that for each of us, there is a specific location where our personal energies are in harmony with the natural forces of the Earth, thus merging and creating an ultimate sense of peacefulness and belonging. Having been infected with wanderlust at an early age, I was drawn to the notion that someday, I would find "the place" that would heal my wounded soul - and I was pretty damn sure it was not going to be Simi Valley, but the money was good.
So I put the money to good use, taking every opportunity to search for my geo-center. Every vacation, every weekend getaway, every road-trip was an chance to try on a different location. With each new destination, I would close my eyes and tap in to the terrestrial energy reservoirs hoping to experience a flood of destiny. I searched in the pristine mountains of the Sierra Nevada, in the salty islands of the Florida Keys, on the tropical shores of Costa Rica, in the barren flats of west Texas, in the steamy side-streets of New Orleans, in the dense jungles of the Yucatan, and in the high savannahs of Africa. Although I experienced many wonderful feelings in all of these places, none gave me a sense of concentric existence. I always felt like a visitor, an intruder, observing from afar, but not participating from within.
Then, I discovered Baja.
Nearly every article I have ever read about Baja California describes the spell of enchantment this untamable land casts upon its visitors. The authors often credit the pristine seas, impossibly blue skies, fiery sunsets, friendly inhabitants, or vast stretches of perfect solitude as the source of such Baja magic. It is beyond the scope of this essay to dissect just what makes it so alluring; suffice to say, at present, the southern tip of the Baja peninsula is the front runner in my quest for a geo-center. I have never been so content with a mere "place" anywhere else. Being in Baja makes me feel alive, connected, and calm. I cry each time I leave. Once gone, I feel displaced. Existence becomes routine. Life loses its luster. I sink deeper and deeper into melancholy, longing for that feeling of harmony, aching for the time when I can return and rejoin the universe.
It was from the depth of such a depression that I decided to take drastic measures to spend an extended period of time in Baja. The decision was like dry kindling in a forest seized by drought. Once I began making arrangements to disentangle myself from my dull suburban existence, flames of enthusiasm raged through my soul until I became engulfed in the heat of momentum. It became easier and easier to sever my emotional ties to my comfortable, upwardly mobile rut. Career ambitions, the security of home ownership, even the comforts of everyday conveniences all became fuel in my quest to get back to my little slice of paradise by the sea. I became absolutely obsessed with the thought of getting back to Baja, specifically, returning to Playa San Pedrito and the wonderful campground I had briefly called home a few short years before.
"I'm cashing out and running away to Mexico to live on the beach and eat tacos." Friends and family reacted with concern and disbelief - "You can't do that," being the most common retort. I would explain my disenchantment with the American dream, the alienation born of slaving away under fluorescent lights for small minded supervisors. I would describe feelings of freedom, discovery, and adventure. I would see the change in their eyes as they became swept up in the romance of my endeavor. Briefly, they would imagine themselves running off to some tropical paradise before the pressure of responsibility sent them slouching back to their cubicles. Only my mother and the lady with the oxygen tank at the laundromat endorsed me without hesitation.
So, the house was sold, the job was quit, and every replaceable object in my possession was jettisoned (the sentimental items were placed in storage, but already their importance is fading like a construction paper flower on a roadside gravesite). A new truck was purchased, a camper was outfitted, and finally, hurricane season was ended. I was heading to Baja for six glorious months of healthy, meaningful living. I planned to take several weeks to traverse the 1000 mile peninsula, leisurely visiting the more isolated areas as I made my way to Playa San Pedrito, but anticipation and excitement overruled exploration, and I found myself racing feverishly southward. I barely had time to notice how lush the desert landscape had become. Valleys and hillsides were bursting with brilliant green shrubs. The entire countryside was aflutter with a dizzying array of colorful butterflies, making for a dazzling display on the grille of the truck. There were so many dead butterflies along the roadside that it looked as if someone had sprinkled the entire length of Highway One with flower petals just to herald my return. I delighted in these visuals, ignoring their portent.
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The dramatic Sierra de la Laguna mountain range rises sharply from the desert floor, bisecting the southern tip of Baja from North to South. When the hurricanes of late summer sweep across the peninsula from the west, the mountains serve as a natural barricade. Eager to continue their journeys eastward, the swirling storms quickly relieve themselves of their watery baggage. The water, liberated from the confines of the dark clouds, rushes urgently to the sea. It hadn't even rained at the beach on the day a fifteen foot wall of water washed away my beloved campground.
I fell to my knees and wept in the middle of the dusty arroyo. All my planning, all my dreaming and scheming, swept away like the dense cover of cholla bushes, ocotillo plants, saguaro cactus, and pinon trees that had once covered this now barren swath of destruction. Warnings and admonitions from my friends echoed through my head as I surveyed the damage. The round palapa restaurant was still standing, but the kitchen and the front door had been blown away. The pool was identifiable only by the ring of shabby palm trees that had survived along its perimeter. The rental cabanas resembled the false fronts of a Mexican movie set. The RV park seemed ok, but the power and water lines were gone, and most certainly the septic systems were filled with mud. Several old trailers and trucks were strewn about the grounds as if some giant's mother had called him abruptly away from his beach toys. I choked on my sobs. I was going to live here for six months, and now it was gone. Then I remembered just what I loved about this land.
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In America, everyone is struggling to make their dreams come true. National dogma teaches that anyone can be a CEO, a star athlete, or even the president � if you just work hard enough. It is the lie that motivates us to struggle against the odds. It is the promise that keeps us anchored to small slices of suburban security. We each believe we are in control of our lives and of our futures. By running off to Baja, I also believed I was taking over control of my destiny, but in actuality I stopped making plans and completely surrendered to the present. Here, I truly live in the moment.
Is Baja indeed my geo-center, or did I just happen to become centered while living here? Either way, I am happy to be out of control in Mexico.
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