We headed down the coast of California in a rumbling, brown van, replete with a stove, backseats that doubled as a bed, and a mini-fridge. Our trip over the border was a smooth one; a short line of cars at the tip of San Diego dumping us expeditiously into Tijuana, a frenzied hub that all other seedy border towns seek to emulate. We drove through carefully and deliberately, not wanting to get lost or caught in the dirty city’s confusing maze of one-way signs and misinformation.
We finally made it to an overlook on the Pacific and stopped to have Bloody Caesars (Clamato’s spin on a Bloody Mary). Dolphins leaped out of the choppy waters. The sun was bright and the air was crisp. We raised our cocktails in cheers and looked out onto the horizon. We were content. We were in Baja.
I’ve watched December 31 pass into January 1 five times in Baja. One New Year’s was spent camping and surfing; another three were spent with twenty or so friends in rented houses in Rosarito and La Bufadora; and once I road tripped down to the Sea of Cortes.
Baja is close to California, so it’s an easy and inexpensive getaway. But what brings me back to Baja to celebrate New Year’s Eve is not what is there, but what isn’t.
New Year’s Eve, spent in the city, is a holiday often marked by expensive parties, a scarcity of cabs, and frequent DUI checkpoints. In Baja, none of these things exist, or if they do, they are easily avoidable. You’re in Mexico, a place where you can purchase fireworks and firewater in the same store. Lawlessness on the highways is a constant reminder of the lackadaisical law enforcement that exists practically everywhere.
Everything moves at a much more relaxed pace, forcing you to throw your city angst out the window, like the locals throw their trash. A New Year’s Eve spent on the long peninsula is marked not so much by one point in time, when the :59 changes to the :00, but rather, it is a three or four day quest to be swallowed up by the Mexican way of life.
And that life, at least for a visitor whose pockets are lined with American bills and whose main responsibility is not to get arrested by the federales, is great. Fish tacos are plentiful, cheap, and cooked to perfection. Just a few hours south of the border, in Puerto Nuevo, you can find lobster that is inexpensive and abundant. A cold Tecate with lime accompanies every meal.
When you cross the border into Baja you know you’re not just on vacation; you’re traveling. This means getting by on a language that isn’t your own and doing things you wouldn’t normally do at home. Your friends are walking around on New Year’s Eve wearing Mexican wrestling masks and carrying titty mugs on holsters. You wrap your mouth around the nipple to take a shot of tequila, hoping your friends video camera will soon run out of film.
There are nights spent in Ensenada, where you can pay a few pesos to a friendly employee of Papas y Fritas to come over and give your friend a screaming shooter. This involves a stealth approach by an employee, who has a whistle, tequila, and 7-up. He makes you take a tumbler of the tequila/7-up shooter, and then he holds your mouth and vigorously shakes your head back and forth while blowing a whistle in your ear. It’s juvenile and ridiculous, but not as bad as when he then flips you upside down and your boobs come popping out of your tube top. Any other bar in North America you might actually care that your boobs just came flying out of your top, but you’re in Mexico. No es importa. You’re happy your friends got their money’s worth.
