Mexico: The Last Baja Sunset (cont.)

After he provisioned me, I told him I appreciated his charity and that I would not forget him. The last I saw him, Jesus was standing inside of the gate, watching me go. He was born there, he had told me, and I imagine he will die there. I have met many people like him in the Baja ranchlands, and it warms me up inside to know that there are friendly human hearts beating in this lonely desert. It makes me wonder, however, to think that these humble shacks with their wooden fences, the animals outside, and the few skeletal trees in the yard are their only homes.

My own home is in the city of San Francisco. It is a different world, but I am of it, and I miss it. Out here I am dirty, alone, and hungry, but even after so many months I have not managed to break free of my urban American roots. I find myself longing for the company of my family and friends, walking around amidst tall buildings and crowds of people. The big city is undeniably my home.

As I walk along the dirt road, reminiscing on all this and slowly eating my cheese, I just can't help but wonder what I am doing here. This is the Vizcaino desert. The sky above is vast and empty. The terrain around me is dry and forbidding. The terrible sun beats down on me. I am a stranger in a strange land. This country is Jesus's homeland – not mine. I care little about the conventional ambitions of my culture. I have no job and no plans for the future. I have been going about for months now in this foreign country, living out of my pack day by day, wondering each morning what adventures might befall me. The aspirations of my life are simple and easily fulfilled: meet some new people, have some coffee, buy some cheese, and perhaps spear a fish for dinner. But is this life a good one? Am I happy? I’m 24 and perhaps I’m too young to know.

I am still hiking along, wondering if I can reach El Cuarenta by nightfall and maybe get some real food in me, when a roaring motor seems to come out of nowhere from behind me. I whirl around and meet four pairs of eyes. It is a pickup truck, filled with American surfers. They skid to a stop and we are lost for a moment in a cloud of dust. Their surfboards are on top. They have room in back for me. They are going to San Diego. Three quarters of me doesn't want to do it, but I find myself climbing in.

"We'll be there by ten PM!" one of them shouts back at me cheerfully through the sliding window, and then we're off, racing northward at fifty miles per hour. My spirits sink to rock bottom. I nestle into their pile of bags to escape the wind. My pack and my spear are all I have, but they have everything: food, sodas, beer, tents, surfboards, and much more. My dirt-poor lifestyle suddenly seems so pointless. In minutes we are zipping by El Cuarenta. The guys up front don't seem to notice the ranch, but I do. It is a humble cluster of wooden shacks. I see some goats in the corral and some skeletal trees in the yard. I want to shout, "Hey you guys! We can buy some cheese here!" – but that life is over. We'll be home soon. There'll be freeways and skyscrapers and banks. I could even go to an ATM machine inside a supermarket and then buy all the cheese in the world. The land of plenty is just hours away.

The desert vanishes behind me. The western sky turns orange, and I watch the Baja sun sink for the last time. El Norte, the United States, lies just ahead, and to think that poor Jesus is still sitting in his humble little shack! For him, going to America might be like a dream come true.

But I, with Baja disappearing before my eyes, begin to cry.

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