We arrived at the border town of Nogales and filled up the gas tank. Fuel in Arizona is significantly cheaper than once you cross into Mexico – an incongruous thought when you consider per-capita earnings and the value of the Peso to the US Dollar. We changed currency at the bank and Ela shot some footage of the much-discussed wall.
Nogales, on the US side, was deathly still in the morning hours. Our ears were greeted only by the sounds of the hot wind rustling through sparse litter and echoes of radio advertisements from some unseen shop. Border patrol officials on bicycles watched us with steely eyes as they rode past storefronts advertising liquidation sales or tactical gear.
We crossed the checkpoint without even a cursory inspection or passport stamp and plunged into the chaos and vibrancy of Mexico. Drawn by the current of traffic onto the highway, we stopped at the Banjarcito to fill out paperwork, receive our tourist visas and pay some fees to register Berta (the Jeep).
Despite some minor headaches, (Ela needed proper documentation to prove that she had not overstayed her official welcome in the U.S.) we were soon back on the road through the expanse of Sonoran desert, which, aside from some abandoned buildings and traffic anomalies distinctly Mexican, was pretty much indistinguishable from the highway we had just left behind in the U.S. – barren, seemingly endless, and gruelingly hot. Ela’s lungs and throat are on fire from the dust. I found myself struggling to keep my eyes open after some hours on that flat-out burn. A quote from brown-faced Alec Guiness in ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ circled in my mind-
“No Arab loves the desert. We love water and green trees, there is nothing in the desert. No man needs nothing. Young men make wars, and the virtues of war are the virtues of young men – courage and hope for the future”
All of our food that was not dehydrated began to melt, as did our endurance. Our conversation became snippy and tense. How the hell, I wondered, did travelers spend weeks or months on horseback crossing this terrain? A few hours going 110km/h seemed like an eternity. We drank bottle after bottle of water as hot as the air around us.
We hoped to find respite (maybe some AC… damn our frugality in buying a Jeep without it!) and some good authentic lunch in Hermosillo, but were stymied by traffic and our own ignorance of the city. Our nerves were running thin. We bought cold water, munched on some of our dried snacks, and pressed on.
After another couple of hours on the road, some very welcome sensations greeted us – moisture in the air and the salty smell of the sea. Sweat began streaming down our bodies. The port city of Guaymas, and memories of my own travels here, were close.
Eleven years ago I left my job working in the library of the American Film Institute in Hollywood and struck out southbound with only a backpack, my guitar, and about a thousand bucks. I was gone for the better part of a year, and most of my friends had thought I was half-mad to go on that sojourn. It remains for me one of the formative times of my early adult life. I was at the time practicing some form of drunken (what I thought to be) Zen Buddhism and writing a novel. It made perfect sense to me (despite my incredulous friends in Hollywood) to spend weeks and months under a palapa roof with my books and a borrowed typewriter, hunting for enlightenment in dim cantinas and cooking by the fire under the sub-tropical stars.
I had begun in Baja, but had helped a friend sail his boat to San Carlos (near Guaymas) and spent about a month shooting pool, improving my Tequila tolerance, and trying unsuccessfully to hitch a ride farther south toward Oaxaca. Eventually, my money ran out, and I made my way back to Los Angeles. My trip had not resulted in the next Great American Novel, but it had reinforced in me a love of Mexico, of sailing, of expatriation, and had stoked the fire of wanderlust that continues to fuel my endeavors.
When we arrived in San Carlos, I wasn’t sure my memory was serving me properly. Naturally, a decade will change the face of a place, but where my (hazy) recollections had formed a romantic expat colony here, what I found this time was far more commercial, far more developed, and far more whitewashed. Perhaps I had made a legend of my previous journey in my mind. Perhaps it had always been this way.
At any rate, we were able to find the bar where I spent much of my time, and suddenly the vividness of that first youthful exploration came flooding back. We filled our bellies on ceviche and shrimp tacos, then explored the dirt roads and found a good camping spot on a secluded part of the beach. We made popcorn on the campfire, and bathed in our birthday suits under the brilliant orange-pink sunset. Our laughter joined the music of the crickets and the surf. It is so warm and humid here, clothes are an encumbrance.
