That's My Story

WHISTLING IN THE GRAVEYARD

Published week of Oct. 30, 2006 in Western Outdoor News

It called me up from the roadside gas station and something compelled me to walk towards the scattered markers and low mounds in this early morning sun, somewhere north of the arroyos and south of the great cactus mesas. The slight chill of the fall morning still evident, I tucked my hands into the pockets of my denim jacket.

It’s besides an old church. Well, that’s being a bit charitable. It’s barely even a chapel, but it sits on a small rise in the Baja desert on the edge of a pueblo. . . on the edge of a road. . . on the edge of somewhere called “El Ra…” The constantly blowing sand has scoured the rest of the sign. On cue, a tumbleweed rolls and bounces past the corrugated metal church doors still bearing a fleck or two of blue paint that the wind, sand and rust have yet to conquer. But it will eventually lose the fight.

One door is locked or maybe permanently rusted shut and the other ajar, but squeaking on metal hinges. The sandblasted exterior and faux steeple are straight out’ve a central casting movie set.

We’ve stopped for gas in this lonely spot where the cactus stand sentinal; the boojum trees imitate Dr. Seuss forests and huge boulders mark the passing of eons. And not much changes except here in the cemetery. It’s a favorite pastime to visit old cemeteries. Take a walk with the fantasmas (ghosts) and espiritus (spirits) of the earth and it’s amazing what they will sometimes tell you. Not all places have a museum but all places have a graveyard.

My hiking boots scuff along the gravel. The stones and angels, crosses and markers, await like an open book. “From dust thou art to dust thou shalt return.” No manicured lawns, reflecting pools or sections named “Garden of Tranquility.” Were it not for the small mounds and markers this might look like just another patch of Baja desert. Here in this little town…Many of the old stone graves…hence lives… are not even marked. Too poor? Worn away by time? Can’t write? But out here, they call to be read. They call to be recognized that a life existed and had a story to tell.

I see that the Cotas, Martinez and Romero clans must have been the predominant familias. The earliest markers are dated around the mid-1880’s. Homberto married Anna and they are here. They had a son named Rodrigo and daughter named Maria who rest over there. They never left this little pueblo. Neither did their children’s children and I bet a descendant probably runs the one –pump gas station down by the road.

But over here, around 1890’s, there were a few Italian families that must have shown up. About that time they say the old fish plant was started too. It’s now only a memory of rusted girders and concrete two miles down the gravel near the beach. It’s probably not a co-incidence that many Italians were fishermen.

There’s a Chinese marker half-buried and slowly melting into the earth. I’m only guessing. It has only one chiseled word “CHOW.” A man or woman? At the turn of the century a group of Chinese walked…yes walked… through here traveling all the way from San Felipe on foot 700 miles and most died along the way. They were promised jobs in La Paz that never materialized when only a handful of survivors finally arrived. Maybe Chow was part of that migration of dreamers that came so far…from Asia…to Mexico…only to end the journey in a place named “El Ra…”

I step around the rubble of an old stone fence as some interesting dates catch my eye. The birth and death dates are close. Even in this harsh land, I see where lives were cut short. At least a half dozen children and babies died in 1919. Hard to believe that not too long ago kids died from the measles and chicken pox. Is that what happened here? Not many doctors back then. There aren’t many now. In the early morning sun, I squint down the deserted highway still not shimmering in the heat. I would guess we’re 60 miles away from the nearest medical facilities. Two cerveza cans tied to strings might be the nearest things to a telephone and I doubt AT& T is in a rush to put up a tower here either.

I step around a few crosses. The older the gravestones, the shorter the life expectancy. Gabriel Sanchez, Aurelio Gomez Bautista, Juan Carlos Ferria and scores of others never made it past the age of 30, but from thei headstone, they lived long enough in these rugged times to have been parents of many children. Life wasn’t very forgiving. These folks didn’t live in a time where you “went on tour” or “found your space” or “listened to your inner child” before settling down. And when you got sick, a bad cold could kill you as easily as a busted leg. The HMO in this pueblito had a hot dull knife, boiling water and a tortilla compress if you were lucky.

The ones that really bring it home are the ones where small black and white photos have been placed into the stones. Some are so old and yellowed that I can only imagine that they were taken by some traveling photographer who’s camera stood on a tripod and he covered his head with a black cloth as the flash powder in the pan exploded and blinded his subjects.

But in that fraction of flash, was captured an unblinking moment in time. Not just names on headstones. Real people. They lived in the Baja that we will never see again but wasn’t too long ago. Before the big highway. Before the condos. Before air conditioning and all-terrain cycles and RV’s, electricity, cappuccino and ice machines. Look into those eyes. Why did they pick this place so far from anywhere? They ate. They toiled. They laughed. They dreamed. They endured. They eventually came to rest in one of the harshest places on the planet. Was this a better life than the one they left?

Surrounded by the vast desert and towering peaks of the Gigantes, their spirits continue to speak in the arid Baja wind and they are still part of this wild open place we call la frontera de Baja…the Baja frontier.

I hear a horn honk down the rise. Gas is filled and I walk back to the truck careful to trod lightly on the Mexican spirits. I pull my Levi coat a little closer against the October breeze and am suddenly reminded, next week is Dia de Los Muertos in Mexico. It’s the day the dead are celebrated and honored. I glance back. Thank you for sharing your stories, amigos Descanse en Paz. Rest in peace.

That’s my story. If you ever want to reach me, my e-mail is riplipboy@aol.com.