That's My Story

BAJA LOST AND FOUND – published Feb. 2005 – Western Outdoor News Baja Backbeat Column

Who of us at some point haven’t had the urge to tell the boss just where to put the stapler; exactly what we think of our significant other; or wanted to be able to flip the national digital one-finger bird to every driver as we sat in gridlock with total impunity? Usually good common sense; morals; the need for the paycheck or our own sense of self-preservation restrain us from doing anything quite so drastic.

However, the other day, we were sitting on a waterfront adobe wall here in La Paz eating some street tacos with a few friends. In one way or another, all of us are retirees, ex-patriates or pirates from another life…a former attorney…softwear developer…fireman…truck driver…car salesman. You get the idea. Flip flops; fishing shorts; and raggedy t-shirts…basically “Baja Formal.”

Taco in one hand. Beer in the other. The warmth of the late afternoon rolled up on us as easily as the afternoon corumel breeze flitted and began it’s customary dance along the waterfront’s coconut trees like a little kid just released from the confines of the school desk. As we stuffed our faces with the succulent marinated pork and tortillas, the smell of the meat and onions roasting on the grill wafted around us and in the distance the boom box on a waiting taxi cab provided a nice soundtrack.

Sitting there dangling our legs, a dusty car briefly pulled over. A young man jumped out and stapled a yellow printed sheet on the nearby wooden phone pole before jumping back into the car which sped down the block and performed the same ritual at another telephone pole.

A concert? A social meeting? Half-eaten tacos in hand, several of us stepped up to read the construction paper notice.

Beneath the black and white grainy photocopy of a smiling gent in shorts with receding hairline and sandy beard and mustache were the words from a worried family. It looked like the photo was taken on some beach. He was shirtless and smiling as if on a family picnic. He looked happy, like some exec on a welcome 3-day-weekend. Apparently, the guy was missing. The 58-year-old was “last seen north of Ensenada about 2 months ago riding his motorcycle on a trip from San Diego CA.” It went on to describe the man in more detail but what hit me were the words at the bottom of the page: “Foul play suspected. Please call worried wife.”

The group looked at each other. I guess in the U.S. such a notice would have drawn some concerned looks like when you see those photos in the post office. Maybe it was the effects of beer and full tummies, but we all looked at each other and smiled thinking the same mischievous thought.

This guy wasn’t “missing.” He was GONE! He didn’t want to be found!

“Probably found a house in Loreto,” grinned Dave.
He’s working on his hook tying, “said Rod.
“He’s probably doing what we’re doing right now,” added Billy
“Got himself a dog named ‘Pancho,’” smirked Joe
“And a girlfriend named Veronica,” laughed Terry. We all laughed.

Hopefully, nothing bad had actually happened to this guy, but all of us know that Baja has that seductive power over people and if he “lit out” for the cactus mountains and sugar-sand beaches, he wouldn’t be the first. Like shedding an old skin, Baja is populated by folks who just took that one step across the San Ysidro border and decide, they weren’t coming back.

On the Baja license plate it says, “La Frontera” (the frontier) where normally you would see the state name. Despite many changes, Baja is still the wild frontier in our little brains that tell is there’s a simpler easier life if we just keep walking south towards where the land ends. Some call it a disease. Others call it magic. Some run away from things. Others run after something.

Yes, it’s possible to only have one set of clothes again and none of them have buttons or extend beyond your elbows or knees. It’s possible to actually know your neighbors. It’s possible to have everything you need within walking or biking distance. That’s real sunshine you see every morning and the ocean water isn’t blue because the pool guy has the chlorine set correctly. You don’t really need a store with 20 types of toilet paper to survive or 10 brands of mayonnaise. One will do thank you.

About a week later, I was again sitting on that same adobe wall indulging in one of my favorite and cheapest pastimes… eating an afternoon taco. A dust-caked Sukuki motorcycle pulled to the curb and the long-legged rider with the shorts walked into the little mercadito (convenience store) and came out with a bottle of water pausing briefly to read the now torn yellow notice which was now dog-eared and slightly ripped from a week in the Baja sun. He studied it intently lifting his sunglasses so he could read it. He then laughed. Looked at me; dropped his sunglasses back on his nose; grinned and got back on his motorcycle. I could see from his shoulders he was still laughing as he rode away.

And I laughed too. Bienvenidos, amigo. Welcome to the ranks, Mr. “Last Seen North or Ensenada.” You’d obviously made it as far as La Paz! Call home to let ‘em know you’re not coming home for dinner.

That’s my story…
Jonathan