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.

BAJA TRANSITION

Published in Western Outdoor News week of Oct. 22, 2006

Hombre, fishing days like this are just fine! Where else but in the Baja can you wake up; jump in a boat; go catch some fish and still be back in the office by 8:30 a.m. taking calls and handling e-mails? I’m blessed and I know it. At 8;30 a.m. some of my amigos are still eating their morning cereal over the paper and coffee or sitting in the car pool lane or standing in the Starbucks line. I’ve put a dozen fish in the boat; had a breakfast of leftover dorado fish tacos; and snuck in a cerveza to wash it down (I forgot to bring water!).

I really enjoy this time of the year in the Baja. It’s not the summer and it’s still not quite winter or even fall. The urgency and hectic frenzy of the summer fishing season is behind us and it’s still not the holidays. It seems that the whole of the Baja sort of exhales and ratchets down a few notches. It’s like a ballpark just after the game is over or being among the last few people at a huge picnic and you get to go picking through the leftover goodies on the buffet line all to yourself.

The sun doesn’t seem as high and the brisas del norte (northern winds) are starting to blow a little more regularly. Those summer days of glassy calm waters will soon be memories. In the span of a week, the sometimes-oppressive humidity of the summer/fall simply vanishes and the weather isn’t just comfortable. It simply doesn’t exist. You don’t even think about it! You only notice the bright glare of the sun but also notice that it’s a tad cooler in the shade.

This is the one time you truly can tell the tourists from the locals. While the tourists continue to sport Docker shorts and Hawaiian print shirts; tropical wrap-arounds and sandals, we’re wearing long pants, sweatshirts and shoes to temper the morning “chill” even though the day will still eventually reach 90 degrees. In 3 weeks, I guarantee I’ll have my sheepskin Uggs boots on and the tourists will chuckle.

And the food! Andale! A hot steaming bowl of pozole soup or fish albondigas (meatballs) soup swimming in fresh cilantro, rice and a dash of jugos de limones (lime juice) not only tastes good, but is a welcome meal on evenings when two weeks ago, it was too hot to even think about eating.

But the best part is the fishing! To a large degree, you can actually find your spot on the ocean and call it your own. Plant your philosophical fishing flag on your personal honey hole and fish your brains out. If you really want to find some solitude, whether it’s a beach, a reef, or a high spot, it’s here to be found even close to the large metro areas. You can be as lonely as you want.

The last 3 times I’ve been on the water, we saw barely another boat. No one was even jabbering on the radio. There’s something really special about silence out on the water. No boom boxes. No one named Jose making animal noises on Channel 16 or speaking so fast in Spanish it sounds like a single 5 minute word. You can hear yourself think and the only sound you’re keyed to is the sound of your clickers going off and the pop and sizzle of another cold one being liberated from the confines of the ice chest …just like your soul.

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

BAJA TRANSITION

Published in Western Outdoor News week of Oct. 22, 2006


Hombre, fishing days like this are just fine! Where else but in the Baja can you wake up; jump in a boat; go catch some fish and still be back in the office by 8:30 a.m. taking calls and handling e-mails? I’m blessed and I know it. At 8;30 a.m. some of my amigos are still eating their morning cereal over the paper and coffee or sitting in the car pool lane or standing in the Starbucks line. I’ve put a dozen fish in the boat; had a breakfast of leftover dorado fish tacos; and snuck in a cerveza to wash it down (I forgot to bring water!).

I really enjoy this time of the year in the Baja. It’s not the summer and it’s still not quite winter or even fall. The urgency and hectic frenzy of the summer fishing season is behind us and it’s still not the holidays. It seems that the whole of the Baja sort of exhales and ratchets down a few notches. It’s like a ballpark just after the game is over or being among the last few people at a huge picnic and you get to go picking through the leftover goodies on the buffet line all to yourself.

The sun doesn’t seem as high and the brisas del norte (northern winds) are starting to blow a little more regularly. Those summer days of glassy calm waters will soon be memories. In the span of a week, the sometimes-oppressive humidity of the summer/fall simply vanishes and the weather isn’t just comfortable. It simply doesn’t exist. You don’t even think about it! You only notice the bright glare of the sun but also notice that it’s a tad cooler in the shade.

This is the one time you truly can tell the tourists from the locals. While the tourists continue to sport Docker shorts and Hawaiian print shirts; tropical wrap-arounds and sandals, we’re wearing long pants, sweatshirts and shoes to temper the morning “chill” even though the day will still eventually reach 90 degrees. In 3 weeks, I guarantee I’ll have my sheepskin Uggs boots on and the tourists will chuckle.

And the food! Andale! A hot steaming bowl of pozole soup or fish albondigas (meatballs) soup swimming in fresh cilantro, rice and a dash of jugos de limones (lime juice) not only tastes good, but is a welcome meal on evenings when two weeks ago, it was too hot to even think about eating.

But the best part is the fishing! To a large degree, you can actually find your spot on the ocean and call it your own. Plant your philosophical fishing flag on your personal honey hole and fish your brains out. If you really want to find some solitude, whether it’s a beach, a reef, or a high spot, it’s here to be found even close to the large metro areas. You can be as lonely as you want.

The last 3 times I’ve been on the water, we saw barely another boat. No one was even jabbering on the radio. There’s something really special about silence out on the water. No boom boxes. No one named Jose making animal noises on Channel 16 or speaking so fast in Spanish it sounds like a single 5 minute word. You can hear yourself think and the only sound you’re keyed to is the sound of your clickers going off and the pop and sizzle of another cold one being liberated from the confines of the ice chest …just like your soul.

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

SNAPSHOTS FROM THE TOWER

Published week of Oct. 16, 2006 Baja Beat of Western Outdoor News

Get your motor runnin’
Head out on the highway
Looking for adventure
And whatever comes our way
Yea, Darlin’ gonna make it happen
Take the world in a love embrace
Fire all of the guns at once and
Explode into space!

“Born To Be Wild” Steppenwolf 1968

Steppenwolf’s classic headbanger is doing a downill cavalry charge out’ve the speakers rumbling and thundering and bristling with power and I suck it in like an audio nectar of power.

I can’t help but remember a scene from an old pirate movie (Treasure Island?) of a few years back. The bad guy pirate climbs to the top of the mainmast. He looks down as his ship is blasting away with a British man o’war and all hell is breaking loose. Smoke is swirling. Shot is whizzing by his ears. Both ships are burning. You can taste the cordite and sulfer. He doesn’t care if he’s winning or losing. He’s oblivious to the fact that both ships are getting shot to hell but he raises his sword and screams from the top of a yardarm,

”I LOVE THIS LIFE!”

Today I am in my own crow’s nest of sorts. I’m up in the tuna tower of a sportfisher and we’re in hunting mode. I’m crew. It has been a long time since I was up here. I’m on a gunship. Not a banger local boat. This boat is meant for hunting. Full arsenal of gear. The crew is trained. No weekend warriors aboard. It’s as close to being a professional boat as I could hope for. There’s a sense of pride with being asked to play with the big boys. This boat has game and it’s been a long time since I’ve worked a boat like this and it’s ready for a rumble!

I like smoke and lightning
Heavy metal thunder
Racing with the wind
And the feeling that I’m under

When you work at ground zero every day close to the waters on the pangas, you forget the view from on high. You can’t see the forrest for the trees. Up here, I’m king of the world again. Leo di Caprio has nothing on me! I’m flying and king of all I survey.

We move up along the rust colored islands and I wedge myself in and hold on as the boat rhymically rocks as we troll along the edge of the drop offs easily distinguished by the torquioise shallows dropping to the cobalt cliffs splashing by under the fiberglass hull.

Porpoise join and roll under the bow wake. Their dark sleek bodies effortlessly gliding below my lofty grandstand. It seems that from here, I can see for miles down into the depths as easily as I can spot a single finner 10 miles away. Maybe tuna under us? I don’t care. I look back and down at the cockpit astern two decks below me. The warm sunshine beats down and the music pounds from the deck speakers.

Six lines. The outriggers are set. In perfect unison and expertly set in our wake, the big slant-headed popper and smoker heads cut, shimmy and pop out of the stern waves. Occasionally, one leaps then falls back and each leaves a perfectly smoking bubble trail behind it. Crew members on each stern corner know their jobs. All eyes scan. The wind drums lightly on my ears and Steppenwolf plays on as the big gunship bumps, halts and glides as the bow bites each swell then pushes through and I ride the gentle bronco from high in my tower. Salt mixes with diesel and the aroma of burgers on the galley flat grill waft up to my perch. I love this life!

Then, there is is…dark…darting…blink my eyes to be sure. A dark elongated shape is in the trolling pattern. It jigs, zags and examines one then another lure. I can clearly see the flurescent patterns of bluish purple stripes on the marlin as it chases then falls back, clearly in “feed mode.” FISH ASTERN! A bill comes up and slashes once, twice, an outrigger clip snaps with a loud crack and a 50 wide sings it’s song! Then the starboard short line also goes off. FISH ON! Double hooks ups!

Fire all of your guns at once
And explode into space
Like a true nature's child
We were born, born to be wild
We can climb so high
I never wanna die!

It’s good to get above it all now and then. Everyone should get to be a king of all they can see at least once in their lives. Nowhere else but the Baja to do it in!

That's my story. If you ever need to reach me, I'm at riplipboy@aol.com

JUST ADD WATER!

PUBLISHED IN WESTERN OUTDOOR NEWS BAJA BEAT WEEK of OCT. 10, 2006

Show me the water.

Contrary to what a lot of my clients and friends might think, it’s water, not cerveza that makes the Baja. They are building a new desalination plant in the Cabo San Lucas area and the hubbub over it and the possibilities it presents are tremendous.

Think of it! In this arid land of scrub and dust and thirsty throats where the pervasiveness of the sun leeches the hydration out of life on a daily basis, this is big news. To the locals, this represents water to live, wash, water, and clean! But it also means…(here we go) the panacea that paves the way for more house lots; hotels; condos; golf courses and fast food franchises. Just what we need. I guess. I like water as much as the next guy. Preferably cold. Rocks are nice. Shaken not stirred. And one of the great inventions of modern times is the hot shower!

They say there’s just not enough land for everyone on Mother Earth. But I say water is a more pressing issue. There’s not enough water for everyone. Hard to believe, but I’ve read where Baja actually gets more rain per year than say…Los Angeles! The only problem is that in Baja, all of that rain can fall in the span of 24 hours when your local chubasco comes to blow your house away and wash away your car.

But I was driving out in the hills the other day up above the East Cape in an area between Cabo and La Paz. It’s a wonderful time to drive through the Baja. Recent rains and storms up and down the peninsula have converted the landscape into a carpet of verdant lush foliage.

In a land of “brown” real grass grows everywhere. Bushes and trees often resembling a nuclear landscape are suddenly exploding with shiny new leaves. Desert flowers such and bougainvillea lend dabs of purple, fuchsia, and pink as an impressionistic painter would drift brushstrokes of color to a living canvas. There are actual creeks flowing in the desert percolating from Olympic mountain tops shrouded in clouds as the alien sound of gurgling water can be heard from springs and rivulets that only exist during this time of year. Even the stalwart cactus seem to stand a little straighter as they swell obscenely from drinking deeply from the soaked earth. It’s hard to believe this is the same Baja, but within a few months the old desert shall return. If you ever had the opportunity to drive through the Baja in the fall, it can be pretty spectacular.

As I was driving, I got to wondering what this land might look like if it had water year-round. Given that this was a land borne of fire and lava, it is rich with the same vitality that produces the jungles of Hawaii. The only difference is that Hawaii gets hundreds of inches of rain a year. All it takes is water. What would the Baja landscape be like? What would the crops be like? What would the economy and the people be like if there was water here year round? Would Tijuana or Ensenada, Loreto or Mulege be the same? Or would they now be Las Vegas? Palm Springs? Oasis carved from the scrub and desert. Could that have been Baja if Baja had all the water it wanted? Is that better?

It makes you think what Baja and northern Mexico might have been if we had never stopped up the mighty Colorado River way upstream to water our golf courses and wash our driveways and turned the river into a muddy trickle of silt.

But, I continue to drive and think and enjoy the countryside that sprawls in a carpet of green before me and a small splatter of rain hits my windshield. Not enough to even turn on the wipers, but enough to splatter the dust on my windshield and make me promise to get my windows washed as soon as I get back to town and find some water.

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

Published originally in Baja Backbeat in Western Outdoor News Magazine Summer 2006

SOCCER ISN'T MY GAME!

Let me preface this issue’s column by saying that I am not a soccer fan. I grew up playing football, baseball and basketball, and although my nieces and nephews run up and down the field kicking that little white ball around, I hope if I have a kid, even if it’s a girl, she signs up for Pop Warner and puts on the pads. Besides…it hurts when someone kicks you in the shins!

That being said, it’s still hard living here in Baja and not getting swept up in the recent World Cup thing. It makes our American Super Bowl pale in comparison as literally billions are watching what looks like a simple (and at times) boring game to my admittedly uneducated eye and myopic brain. I can sure appreciate the athleticism of the players, but find it hard to understand the enthusiasm and fervor of the fans for a game for which I have no use and is seemingly broadcast 24/7 here on Mexican TV when I wish they were showing the NBA finals instead.

But there’s a lot to be said about such a popular sport and I have my own soccer story to tell. It underscores the real beauty of any sporting endeavor which is the ability to draw different people together on a level playing field where briefly the only color and social differences are the colors of the opposing jerseys and knowing who has the ball.

Years ago when I first found myself living and working in Baja, I worked at a small and rather exclusive boutique hotel on miles of deserted beach in a hidden bay. The owner had built a paradise on several hundred acres accessible only by dirt road or private plane and he made no bones about wanting to cater to the well-heeled portion of the traveling population. You had to be well-heeled to afford the nightly high rent, but you got some great service and facilities. I worked as the fishing guide, dive master and wore a few other hats as well.

Living and working in the “big house” with el jefe (the boss) and his wife, was a great life and they were always good to me. They were incredible folks but the owner had a short fuse when it came to the local commercial fishermen who had built a semi-permanent fish camp perhaps a quarter mile down the beach from the hotel. As with many gringos who buy ocean-front Mexican property, there’s a certain sense of entitlement that with land ownership comes beach ownership as well. In El Jefe’s mind, these cretins were on HIS playa (beach) trashing his property; lowering his property values; living in eyesore ramshackle huts and he could not stand them and did as much as he could to harass and get them to leave to little avail. Mention the fishermen down the beach and you could expect a Vesuvian eruption of Span-glish epithets, a gnashing of teeth and rattling of sabers!

Of course, being a trusted employee and having limited access to few locals in this remote place other than the large local staff, I was quickly indoctrinated into the “party line” of basically not liking the riff-raff down the beach. I didn’t hate Mexicans. I just didn’t like the vagabundos on our beach! They didn’t like my boss, me, his family or have any use for the sprawling hotel or the rich gringos clients either so there was a tense cease-fire co-existence most times. Fine.

Well, as with many Epiphanies, mine started innocently. Much like when your baseball accidentally gets hit into “Old Man Jones’ yard” and you realize you must interact with the curmudgeonly neighbor, One of our plastic kayaks blew off the beach and drifted down the beach to the “bad zone.” Uh-oh…

Well, the boss wasn’t going to get it and being low man on the pole, it was up to me to go fetch. I walked over with much trepidation not to mention not much more than my high school Spanish that was still a major work-in-progress.

Have you ever heard those stories where opposing armies in a great conflict sometimes stop the shooting over the simplest human needs? In the American Civil War, Union and Confederate soldiers sentries often secretly shared tobacco or hard tack with each other and put down their guns to chat. In World War One, German and British soldiers came out of the trenches on Christmas day to play soccer in the mud of no-man’s land and sing Silent Night. Stuff like that.

As I walked over, I noticed the kayak was in the hands of the “bad guys.” Being Sunday, no one was working so the camp had about 30 guys in it and as they saw “El Chaparito Hawaiiano” (the shortie Hawaiian as they came to call me later) activity stopped and I could tell everyone at the camp was watching me. Guys stopped cleaning their pangas; repairing nets; came out’ve their clapboard, plywood and tarpaper huts.

The two young guys who had the kayak on a rope walked warily toward me. I was nervous.

“Su kayaka?” (your kayak?) asked one of the younger ones as he handed me the tether rope.
“Si. Gracias” I responded. I nodded and we kind of stood there for a moment. I think a smile flickered between the 3 of us.
“Tienes cerveza?” (Got beer?) asked one of them. (Ah…the international guy code!)
“Si, una caja, porque? Esta en mi hielera en mi casa.” (Sure, a case, why? It’s in an ice chest in my house)

“Frio?” (Cold?) I was asked. (Ice and cold beer are a luxury out there!)

“Si, Frio!”(Yes, cold!) I responded now smiling. I saw more smiles and teeth…albeit not good teeth, but something was happening here between me and the vagabundos!
“Ven aca mas tarde en la tarde.” (Come here later in the afternoon). With that the walked away. I stood there knowing I was being watched feeling a bit like Kevin Costner in “Dances with Wolves.” Hmmmmm…

Several hours later at dusk when my boss couldn’t see what I was doing, I snuck away. I grabbed several ice chests of bottled Pacifico and canned Tecate and drove down the beach to the camp.

What I found was a soccer game in the sand! Lit by the headlights of their beat up pickup trucks and non-descript rusty Chevy’s and Fords, they had laid out a little field and had just started when the short Hawaiian showed up. Around the perimeter they had little “smudge pots” made of tin cans with oil or something in them that they had lit and now burned and emitted a stinky gritty smoke that carried on the ocean wind over the camp. I got out. Not much was said, but when I pulled out two ice chests of beer…well…I quickly found myself playing goalie for the guys in the cutoff shorts and grungy t-shirts. These guys had game too! Within a few minutes I wasn’t sure if I was playing soccer or rugby or keep-away, but I was covered in sand and sweat and the best part…smiles and laughter.

We played soccer into the night and I still don’t understand the game. A bonfire was lit and I think we ate barbecued pig or something, (when you’re a guest in the “enemy” camp you just eat it and smile) but it was incredible and somewhere at the bottom of that big stock pot of soup was a goat’s head that I never would have ever tried. With cebollas (onions) and ajo (garlic) and other vegetables, it rivaled any soup we served in the hotel restaurant and it was perfectly fine to eat with your fingers and wipe it on your shirt afterwards and then use your sleeve to wipe your mouth. When in Rome…

I don’t recall that we talked about the problems they were having with my boss, but for me, it was really my first introduction into “hanging” with the boys in the local ‘hood. Handshakes, smiles and cold beer seem to be universal vehicles of good will. And a soccer ball bounced back and forth…and we all yelled and screamed and laughed. I guess I had gone over to the “darkside.” In the dark and shadows of that remote beach lit only by the headlights and campfire, we all looked alike…dirty and sweaty.

El Jefe has since passed away, but the camp endures more than a decade later and some of those fishermen have remained my friends to this day. We sometimes talk about how they met the funny looking brown guy who worked at the hotel and what a lousy soccer goalie I had been.

That's my story. You can always contact me at riplipboy@aol.com or www.tailhunter-international.com