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.
But the best part about Baja, besides the food, the drinks, and the lawlessness, is the ocean. It’s there to be surfed or to be jumped in for an early morning wake-up, or to be a back drop for a group yoga session.
Down in the long crooked finger towards the Sea of Cortes, the water is no less spectacular. Unlike the ocean, the sea is tranquil and calm. Cacti grow almost to the water’s edge. Fewer people mean an even slower pace of life. While you’re sipping a margarita, rain begins to fall in the sea, and you can imagine why Steinbeck spent so much time here, penning his books. The rain stirs up the bioluminescent plankton, like fireworks exploding beneath the surface. You don’t know if it’s midnight, or earlier, or much later, but it doesn’t matter. Another year has passed, and Baja looks the same.
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