Mexico: An Itinerant History Chapter 8 La Bufadora and Ensenada Tercera Parte
Eighteen of us went to three sites of Baja California North.
Each of us with our own windows, our own views, own biases.
In this group I was the oldest. Maybe by five years. Or six.
Me, 54. An older guy, at last. I started writing of my itinerant journeys when I was younger, in 2002 at age 31. I have let the years go by. This book continues. It follows me. Whenever I go back to Mexico, more must be added. Plus, I did not write enough about it back then, either.
Then there is the next oldest uncle, who did a mission in Philippines. The northern part where people say it gets cool. He has been back to the archipelago twice. He liked it there. Like his siblings, he grew up going to the nice Ensenada beaches. Of all the eight children, I think my wife ended up going to Mexico the most, especially after marrying me.
His wife is about the same age. She grew up in Utah; I am not sure how much she ever went to Mexico in her youth. She moved to southern California for college, and there met the second oldest of our party. They are raising their four children in Utah now, one who attends college in Idaho.
There was the other married-in father like me, (we both joined the big California family in the year 2000) who now lives in Texas. He would have been the fourth oldest of us, like 8 years younger than me, about 46. His wife was back in Ensenada with mine. This brother-in-law grew up in suburban southern California, his family did not have a lot of money, and I do not think that he took many trips to Mexico as a youth. Maybe with the Scouts? He worked in Mexico many weeks as young man before he served his mission in Chile. Even though he has spent those times in Mexico and Chile, I am not sure if he has kept up with his Spanish as much as me. But he is still bilingual, conversant.
The oldest cousin was 24 or so. He spent the mission time in southwest Mexico City. COVID cut it short, so he finished in Utah. Spanish speaking. He had done this same trip to Ensenada with his buddies a year before. We talked about his time and impressions in the country. I may have told him about this book. I cannot remember. It has been about a month now since the voyage. Time makes things so much less sure.
Then there is my 23-year-old. She spent some vacations in Mexico as a baby, spent some good pre-school time in Chile, as well as attended a Spanish branch in California as a toddler, went back to Mexico in recent years as a vacationer, to include the Gulf and the Yucatan, and Tijuana. She has taken some college Spanish, despite taking French for three years in middle and high school. She is intent on learning fluent Spanish and has thought of living in a Spanish speaking country.
The next oldest is about 22, and now engaged to be married. She spent a year and half in the Phoenix< Arizona area, doing a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Spanish, which means that she was in and among many Mexicans and Mexican-Americans. In many ways I would expect Mexico to be homey in many ways to her. She has visited different parts of Mexico with her family, like Puerto Penasco on the Sea of Cortez, or the Yucatan a few years ago near Christmas time, when my wife and children were able to ride along.
Then there is the oldest of the Utah family, who is studying in Idaho, dedicated to theatre production and staging. She is wrapped up in the world of the arts, which can touch on Mexico, but usually takes people into the music, narratives, and spectacles of the stage and the arts. Mexico has not played a large part of the world stage, but Mexico does present a colorful venue for the imagination, I would argue.
How many of us was that so far?
Me. 54. One.
Uncle Tagalog 47. Two.
Wife from Utah. 47. Three.
California Uncle Gone Texas. 46. Four.
Oldest male cousin, served in Mexico. Five
Oldest female cousin, lived in Chile. Six.
Second oldest female cousin Spanish speaking in Arizona. Seven.
Third oldest female cousin in theatre. Eight.
Only ten more to go! All minors. No, my son going to school in Idaho is an adult.
See if I can get this right.
Oldest son in Idaho school, male. Nine.
Oldest Utah cousin. Male. Ten.
Second oldest male cousin from Texas. Eleven.
Then my son, a junior in high school? Twelve.
Next oldest from Texas, male. Thirteen.
Next oldest from Utah, female. Fourteen.
Four more. The youngest.
Youngest boy from Texas. Eighteen.
Youngest girl, also from Texas. Seventh grader. Seventeen.
My girl, now in 8th grade. Sixteen.
Who does that leave? Oh, the youngest from Utah, male. Fifteen.
There were all of us, taking a well paid chartered bus, or van, squished, through the relatively busy roads and side streets of Ensenada, out to La Bufadora. The third oldest, or oldest male, father of the most present, played Mexican music on his phone. I spoke to the nephew who lived in Mexico City (las afueras); he beat us living and staying in Mexico all put together.
But me, I liked to see more of the place, think of it, analyze it. Now write this compendium of sorts.
Me, I am over halfway through my life. Hard to say, no one knows, how much we have left. How much on this mortal plain, this worldly realm. The other adults likely have less time than all these youngsters.
Who else will live in Mexico as a missionary? Among us, that is the most likely way that we would live there. Possibly work could take us there. More pleasure in future trips and cruises, perhaps more ruins to explore.
What could be my last trip there? I planned to go to one or two more border towns, in the rental car the time after we returned, to Los Algodones and San Luis de something. I wanted to see and taste and smell a little bit more. But we brought the norovirus back with us, and it was impossible to feel in any way able to go back. To be able to say that I have known more of the country, but obviously to know more of the ever
The sea was beautiful, the waves were cold and blue, with white caps, rocks running out to sea. This blow hole attracted thousands. We walked down the dead end, lined with dozens, almost hundreds of vendors and their shops, hawking their wares. It some senses this type of sales has been going on for thousands of years. People cooking their hot plates and long grills, heating up their meats or vegetables, calling out in Spanish or sometimes English, maybe a little Japanese or Chinese thrown in there, because certain words or phrases might turn the sale for the people from a dozen plus tourist cultures.
Why not the blow hole, some from far off Tokyo or Shanghai, might say?
We entertained ourselves among the shoppers and the crowds and the hustlers and the sellers, the cooks and less-than-fortunate who attempt to sell something, anything. Where do they all come from? This Mexico. It is third world, or "developing" when you go there.
We were supposed to meet back at the bus at 12:30, to get back to the city, which is close to an hour away. My 16 year-old son and the oldest niece, 22, did not get the memo, and we waited a good while for them to return. Whoops. Group of 18.
We also wanted to keep an adult with each group, but that did not always work out. What did we buy? Each had their things. I bought some "Mexican candy", which we ate weeks later here in Virginia, well past the norovirus. Aye, how it went through us. I did not expel it until after my first day back from work. I scrambled, by the way, to get the paid leave from my annual days off. It was in the last moment when Pepe Biden, or President Joe, gave one more day for me to account for the time away. Last hour, really, which was silly. It worked.
I suffered 5 days of diarrhea and throwing up consistently, not even keeping the apple down that I nursed into my body slowly during the Rose Parade on New Year's not far from where thousands of homes burnt to the ground within the week.
What else? We stopped for food. I tried to go light on the calories, ordering an horchata and steeling a couple of bites from other orders. I thought maybe that water and ice gave me Montezuma's revenge, but I was told later that it came from the cruise ship knives.
Have I already shared this?
I think so, likely.
Anyway, the food was good and affordable, and we eighteen had a good stop at a place on the way back. We finally made it into Ensenada, for an hour plus. Enough time to find the last purchases. Buy those things in Mexico. I almost bought a card/wallet clip holder, but the man walked away nonplussed. I wasn't sure that I had the right bill. I did, but he did catch me in the street.
My daughter and few cousins walked further along, exploring. She said that they came to the river, or water channel (there was no water in it, that day). The day was sunny and generally warm. Nice for right after Christmas. Fun and sun, and we bought things.
I purchased some cheap bracelets for everyone. 18 dollars for 18. But it turned into 22. Or 26. The mother and her little daughters looked at me for some extra change. I obliged. A man complimented me in pretty good English, there on the sidewalk. I looked at him. he was well dressed for a random day, I guess Boxing Day, walking the streets of a smaller Mexican city. The poor and the needy are everywhere. I have seen them before. We walk and we see.
It had me since 1982. There is something special about Mexico that I love. I feel it. It can be dirty, begging, wanting, poor.
I looked into his eyes. He may have been 54, like me. He may have been sixty. He had red in his eyes, like he had been drinking. Like he was a drinker. I knew he wanted me to be generous.
He said times were hard, or something like that. I asked him if he knew about my church, and I invited him to go. I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and I told him in Spanish: Do not drink, brother. I repeated. He smiled. He had hugged me, giving me a warm embrace, of thanks and mercy. Grace, we were sharing.
I followed my nieces down a few more blocks, the seventh grader trying to find the right doll for the right price. She found it. My kids were a few blocks away, making memories.
My wife and sister-in-law, and the two wheel-chair grandparents had already returned to the boat. Their taxi fair was cheap in comparison to ours. My wife told me that they ate well and relaxed, having a good time.
My wife and I had come here some 22, 23 years before. Have I repeated myself? Probably.
Life goes in cycles. Different times, different eras. New generations have risen up. The boys (playing hooky) who offered to watch our car, then maybe 10 or 12 years-old, might be the adult sellers we were talking to now between the coast and this harbor city.
I should right a part four, Cuarta Parte.
Si, as es. Asi sera.
Publica.
