My Baja

As I wrote in my very first column for a newspaper here in Mexico:
since first setting foot in Rosarito, I have had:

“a love affair with Baja.”

Excerpts from Baja y Yo plus photos

The Sunday Mercado

Kids dodging in and out; dogs nosing for food; men hawking mechanical toys; women extolling the magical qualities of beauty and health aids. So crowded at times that it’s nearly impossible to move. Crying, talking, shouting, droning, sometimes singing. The music from a clarinet, a guitar or speakers turned up so high your ears buzz. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes. Freshly cooked chorros and pizzas and roast pork.

The freshest fruits and vegetables. Bright red strawberries. Jicama. Papayas. Squash as big as a bushel basket. Clothing: shirts and dresses and slacks and jeans and t-shirts and caps and sombreros and sport coats. Shoes and belts and wallets, all competing for your attention, assaulting your senses. Swirling, swirling, swirling.

Men and women and children. Grandpas and grandmas. Babies. People eating. People greeting friends and neighbors and relatives. Native Americans, gringos, Asians, Latins from here on way down past several borders.

I go nearly every week to the Sunday mercado. I wander this way and that, bumping into people and people bumping into me. Kids with candy and paletas (similar to popsicles) and soft drinks, chomping and gulping. I see Domingo and his wife, he a Mexicano, she from New York City. We almost rented a house from them, a house in a color-filled setting of trees and flowers. We stop and chat for a minute or two.

I see my Spanish teacher Ricardo who looks sleepy and tells me he is. I see a gringo who, like Ricardo, is a writer and a teacher. I see a different Ricardo, a man who lives a few doors down from my home. He and his wife Luz del Carmen. We talk briefly before going on to a new but familiar sight or sound or acquaintance.

I always walk to the mercado. I enter through the Ejido Mazitlan plaza. I stop to buy periódicos, a Union-Tribune and a copy of Frontera. The little shop is nearly always crowded. Who was the Mexicana who told me that people here don’t read very much? They certainly read the papers.

I ask for a bolsa in which to place the two papers. The bag is easy to carry, and I know I’ll need to keep my hands free to examine potential purchases.

I always stop at the natural food place and buy a mixture of nuts and fruit and lately sesame candy made with honey. I have a favorite market where I buy fruit–grapes as big around as quarters, plums as large as peaches, peaches as big as apples.

It used to be that when merchants at the mercado spoke to me in español, I panicked or froze and most certainly didn’t understand. Now I insist, in my mind at least, on their using Spanish instead of English. If they don’t, I resent it. This is my best chance out of the entire week practicar mi español.

Once I encountered artist friend Jim Maher who right then and there asked me to pose for a portrait he’d promised me for my birthday. Once he’d finished, he rolled it up and taped it. I carried it with me, afraid I’d damage it or lose it. But I had shopping to do, things to buy–bing cherries so luscious they make your mouth water just to see them. A shirt so colorful it evoked compliments everywhere I went the first day I wore it.

You can find almost anything you could want at the Sunday mercado. I bought a bike there. I’ve bought wallets and belts; I’ve bought muchas ropas (clothing) and all sorts of foods. I’ve bought a bookcase, and a watermelon so big I had trouble carrying it home.

The Sunday mercado is a wonderful place with no pressure to buy anything. I always feel good when I go, and the feeling generally lasts all day. Whirlwinds of color and merchandise and

faces. The Sunday mercado.

***

Just About Everything

It’s hard for me to realize that I’ve been living in Baja for nearly nine years. Even though I decided at least twenty years ago that I’d move here when possible, when it came close to the time to leave San Diego, I had qualms. As a writer, my professional life depends on the phone, an Internet connection, and the U.S. mail. And at that time phones weren’t easy to get and the Internet cost lots of money because Telnor was charging per minute for online time.

But despite misgivings, I took the plunge, and I’ve never had a moment’s regret. Why? What’s so great about living in Baja? Well, I can answer that in three words: just about everything.

I’ve liked the culture ever since I was introduced to it in 1980. My major reason for wanting to live here was to immerse myself in that culture, to better get to know the way of life here, and to learn to know the people. And the more I learn the more I never want to move back across the border.

Overall, I like the approach to life. In ways it’s simpler than in the U.S., but in other ways more complex. And there are many differences. One, for instance, is the general attitude about others. In a positive light, Mexicans most often show a greater respect for the elderly. There’s also a different feeling about families.

There are some things about the Mexican culture I can’t embrace. But there are things about U.S. culture that I don’t like either. But there’s much more that I like than dislike. This is why I’m trying my best to learn the language well enough to get along without English (I’m not there yet!), and why I don’t live in an isolated American community. I’m not knocking the idea of living in a gringo community, but I’ve always felt that if I’m going to live in a foreign land, I should immerse myself in that land’s culture, not just bring my culture with me. I remember a former neighbor, a Mexicana, telling me about a restaurant I’d be sure to like because only gringos went there. No, I wouldn’t like that. I’m not here to meet only other foreigners.

Of course, I have American, Canadian, European and Asian friends whom I treasure, but the same holds true for Mexican friends.

The second reason I wanted to move here is that I like the area, the small town feeling (though Rosarito is not nearly as small as it was in the early 80s!), the proximity to the ocean, the topography or geographic features, and the fact that I’m close to two big cities, Tijuana and San Diego, so that almost anything I want or need is within easy driving distance.

My third reason is important, though was far less influential in my making the move. Because of the careers I’ve chosen to follow, I’ve always lived on the edge, though I still can’t give up hope that my next book will be a mega-best seller or my art will take off, or in earlier times that I’d become a well-known actor. But only a very small percentage of people in any of these careers make a lot of money. For every Ernest Hemingway, there’s are hundreds just lucky enough to have a few things published. For every Van Gogh, there are hundreds of people with extra bedrooms filled with their paintings. For every Edwin Booth there are hundreds of actors who are just lucky enough to appear in regional theatres or summer stock before having to go on to work in the “real” world.

The third reason then for my moving to Baja is that I’ll probably never be rich. Despite having had, as of last count, fifty-one books published; despite having acted in, directed or designed more than a hundred theatre productions from educational to professional; despite having sold fifty or more pieces of art, despite sacrificing much more than I ever counted on to earn my Ph.D. degree in theatre, I cannot afford to live in the U.S. and living here costs far less than living there.

Years ago a friend, a self-made millionaire, said to me: “Money doesn’t matter much to you, does it?” “No,” I said, “it doesn’t. I’d rather just be able to do the sorts of things I want.” And what I want to do is live in Rosarito and write about Baja in books and poetry and plays and newspapers and novels. What I want to do is live in Baja and tell about my home in my art and my photos.

Baja is important to me.

***

The Sounds of Baja

It’s 6:30 a.m. Friday and I definitely do not want to be awake. But every five seconds a horn blares, rhythmically, unceasingly. What horn? The one, of course, on the garbage truck. Why is it blowing every five seconds! Because that’s approximately how long it takes for the pickup man to empty a trash can into the truck and for the driver to go on to the next casa.

Why does the driver do this! Does it give him a sense of power to know he controls the waking and sleeping...well, non-sleeping anyhow...of half the neighborhood? Or perhaps he finds the discordant sound pleasing and wants to share the pleasure with everyone on his route.

The horn continues for what seems an eternity. And as surely as I think the sounds have faded into the distance not to be heard again until next week: “FLE-EEEEP! FLE-EEEP!” There it is again on the street just over from mine and the street over from that one and on and on, well, not quite infinitum, but pretty darned close!

Could it be that the horn blower actually thinks that those of us who haven’t put the garbage out the night before are going to run outside, half dressed at best, pick up our garbage cans and rush them out to the street! All in the space of five seconds! Let’s examine this logically. Do you suppose that this very same driver, yanked abruptly from the arms of Morpheus, would joyfully leap from his bed and gallop outside to perform some task that has to be finished in less that five seconds!

On other days there are other sorts of trucks, usually not quite so early. But after staying up late the night before, who wants to be waked even at 7:30 in the morning by the man delivering bottled gas. I don’t even use bottled gas! Yet regular as clockwork, “Fleep...fleep...fleep.” The “fleeps” on this truck are spaced further apart, approximately every ten seconds, and aren’t quite so discordant nor even drawn out so long. But the truck goes exceedingly s-l-o-w-l-y. When I first moved to this street, I became lulled into a false sense of tranquility between those “fleeps.” Ah, that’s the last one, I’d think, and I’m still close enough to that altered state called sleep to return to it. Wrong! “Fleep.” Pause. “Fleep.” Pause. “Fleep. Fleep.” My eyeballs burn as if they’ve been polished with grit. I stare at the ceiling and think thoughts most unkind.

And there are other sounds–the “tamal man” selling his wares each morning at eight a.m.; the frenzied barking of the neighborhood dogs–well one admittedly emits a frenzied whine instead–when a stranger (be it human, canine or feline) passes by. Then on up the street is a yard filled with bird cages, and in each cage is a minimum of twenty-three birds (or so it seems). “Chirp, tweet, hellooo, squawk!” every time I walk past. A miniature Peruvian jungle of birdcalls. I admit I do enjoy hearing these sounds but doubt I would in my own front yard.

In the midst of all these other sounds, dozens of cars and trucks with the most dreadful sound systems every conceived by humankind drive by. Here’s what everyone of them says: “Slmyzen slocser bitanges paf gordedied.” Who knows what that means! And each is the same, whether they’re selling fruit and vegetables, touting political candidates, or advertising circuses.

Ah, the sounds of Baja. The gentle pounding of the surf, the twittering of sparrows outside my window, the stirrings of the rest of the household. It’s a tranquil new day in Rosarito.

The Pictures:

The first three pictures are from the Sunday Market: two carts passing, a “tent” restaurant, and the owner of a booth where I used to shop every week for natural foods.

The first two that accompany “Just about Everything,” are pictures of the pier just behind the Rosarito Beach Hotel and a photo of the Coronado Islands. Following is the entrance to El Nido Restaurant and the retired cook from La Fuente Restaurant, south of town. Then comes a picture of Jessie, my all-time favorite wait person (at Tamale Inn). Pieces like the skeleton ladies are sold at one of my favorite holidays: “The Day of the Dead.”

Photos with “The Sounds of Silence,” like the cover of my novella Mind Swap, have nothing at all to do with the content of the piece. They just happen to be pictures I like. The first shows the bright colors often found in Mexico; the second is taken from a photo I took at La Fuente Restaurant, and the next is the beach at Rosarito on a summer day. I included the last one of T. Grey just because I love his pose.

All the photos–except for those of Jesse and T. Grey–are for sale. Prices are the same as for the other pictures on the site.