At the airport, I carried Michelle’s bags as she fussed over passports, tickets and schedules. At our gate we ate the snacks she had packed and held hands as she weighed the financial prudence of purchasing a coffee. I don’t think either of us fully understood the importance of our first holiday together, and what it would mean for the future of our relationship.
After arriving in San Diego, California Michelle settled into Eore, my 1974 Land Rover, for the first time. As I readied the aging truck to leave storage she searched for the details of my stories. Stored neatly over her shoulder was the worn camping and travel gear from a time in my life that was foreign to her. I admired her for her trust and courage; we were a long way from the routine we were establishing in Toronto, Canada.
“Bienvenidos a Mexico!”
Eore's 2.25 petrol celebrated our border crossing with a fury of noise, fumes and an honest effort at urgency. Michelle gave a friendly waive, and I glanced at her with a flash of irritation as we fled the uniformed bureaucracy. For this, I instantly felt guilty. I wanted to witness her perceptions of Baja, Mexico - a place I loved. Her infectious smile had never been more beautiful. Beyond her window, Tijuana greeted us with the bustle of roadside taco and shaved ice carts amongst colourful buildings. We swerved through the pedestrians dancing with blaring car horns - southward down potholed roads carved through crumbling concrete bridges reinforced with spray painted murals.
South of Ensenada the stars came out, and we found a room and a restaurant down a dirt street. I listened to her excited recounting of the rugged coastal highway, and how the cook smoke of vendors wafted through the bass, accordion and string melodies of the town streets. Diner was the only thing to quiet her. The crab claw special for two - 30 fist sized claws in a marinate of garlic, butter and lime. Food is one of the direct paths to Michelle’s happiness. After crab claws, a Tecate and a bill of $10.00 US - I found peace watching her smiling in her sleep.
Breakfast was Huevos Rancheros in the cookfire smell of flour tortillas. Through a cooling breeze off the pacific we continued south along highway 1. At a 45 mph cruise with the doortops off and the vents open Michelle's black hair waived free in the west coast sunshine. The skin left exposed by denim short-shorts and an ocean blue crop top deepened in our run from the snow and cold of an east coast Canadian February.
On a long stretch of windblown grasslands a soldier reclined on sand bags under palm fronds. He waived with his right, but his left hand rested on a belt-fed general purpose machine gun. Ahead, more crisp uniforms manned an inspection point. Michelle smiled and had our travel documents organized and ready. I grumbled to myself and tensed - I have had a few bad checkpoint experiences, and I find them an intrusion. Admittedly, I was often disorganized and passive-aggressive. They spoke english, and Michelle was charming, friendly and we all parted smiling. As we drove off, I assured her the road ahead was free.
Our first camp was off a cactus track headed for the Pacific coast. Deep down an arroyo, we nestled amongst large boulders, ate freeze dried pasta and watched the sun set. I showed Michelle how isolated we were on a map. A string measured to the map scale of 80 miles could be stretched in any direction without hitting a populated area. There is comfort in not being found, but I could tell our remoteness was also unsettling to her. We snuggled under a thin sheet, the stars and within reach of the Pacific’s breezes.
In the next few days, Michelle fell into the routine of road tripping like a natural, and we found a happy harmony. She began to ignore the vultures circling in her sky. In a coastal camp over Mac and Cheese I joked about my efforts to upgrade my cooking gear to keep her tastebuds happy. For myself, camp food was always about keeping the stomach from growling; flavor required a new effort. A few days further down the road, Michelle sought out fresh ingredients for the next meal cooked over a hissing camp stove. It was market day in the shadow of San Ignacio mission. The first of many unspoken agreements would be made; she would plan the menu - I would cook the food.
Highway 1 is Baja’s paved route south. Two lanes of traffic bounce back and forth from the Pacific coast to the Sea of Cortez as if pushed and pulled by the tides. We had been running the dirt roads on the opposing coast line with the simple plan of resupplying where pavement and dirt converged. As we neared Guerrero Negro, we followed smooth pavement and crossed the border into Baja, California Sur. The rattles of washboard road fell silent, and our newfound speed brought a welcome breeze. Ahead lay the sleepy palm oasis of Mulege. It was our turn around point.
Through a low plain, Michelle slept as the desert passed at Eore’s 45 MPH cruise. We were inland from the coast, and the dash vents blew like a hair dryer. In my solo travels I had often imagined sharing these experiences with someone I was in love with. Braless in a blue tank top with errant hairs from a braid tickling her neck - Michelle was engaging and friendly in a way I wished I could be; smiles always surrounded her. But, I also enjoyed solo silences and time to observe and think. I laughed during the simple elegance of Michelle’s solution to this problem. She had proved she could sleep anywhere and naps where like food to her. Naps would make Michelle happy, solve most arguments and renew her ability to face any hardship. I made a mental note to give serious thought to her nap comfort for future trips.
Our first fight occurred as we approached the waiving palm tree oasis of Mulege. 40 miles back I had broken the silence by singing the Dead’s “Friend of the Devil”. We traded favourite songs in the desert until I refused to sing Bill Medely’s part of “Time Of My Life” - again. I was irritated by the absurdity of her genuine anger. She told me to “fuck off” when I suggested the heat was clearly getting to her. I headed south of town to a favourite thatch roofed place with the perfect lemonade, guacamole and fish tacos. We made up at the lunch table and in the waters of Bahia Concepcion that night.
Our track north followed the eastern coast to San Felipe. Eore is a fuel drum on wheels with water jerry cans to cover large distances with a margin of safety. Our route followed dirt roads, meandered remote two tracks through power-sapping sand and bulldust and scrambled in and out of violently carved river washes.
During the long, fast stretches, Michelle amused herself with a Spanish phrase book. Early in our relationship, she mentioned she’d keep me around as long as I kept her entertained. It was bitchy - but I loved the challenge. During our time in Mexico, her giggles had become laughter whenever I spoke Spanish. I think I had mentioned a Spanish mastery of “near fluency” before we left. It didn’t help that Tagolog was spoken in her childhood home, and the similarities gave her a vastly superior vocabulary. While I refused to be reduced to a thumbs up whenever she finished speaking, another unspoken agreement was made. We spoke together, but I found her enthusiasm for the language and intonation entrancing.
Within a days drive of washboard dirt road from San Felipe we spent our final two nights in a tent. Eore’s low-range, second gear churned through soft sand up a dune that had hid the azure waters of the Sea of Cortez. There were two paths ahead. In the distance, straight and steady converged with a single well used dirt track heading north. To our right, tire tracks disappeared into some low dunes by the sea shore.
We made the turn to the right and bogged on our first attempt to crest a final dune separating us from the sea. I snapped a photo of Michelle in her bikini pretending to dig out my little Land Rover. It was early in the day. We worked to free Eore and he found the power to make the climb to camp under a sunset set to a gentle surf.
After two weeks together, Michelle and I were comfortable in camp; my gear had become our gear. She knew where to find things and made the dash shelf of our little Land Rover her place for her things. Naked, we held hands and waded cautiously into the blue waters - feeling for rip currents and shuffling to avoid stingrays. I held her as the road dust was washed from our skin. Nearby, pelicans fished by plunging into the Sea of Cortez. The sun set over the two of us walking the beach in our natural state; at times moving with the waters rhythm.
I washed her hair before bed and enjoyed chasing soap suds and sand from her skin. In the cool of the deepening night I felt her shiver and reluctantly hid her nudity from the light of a full moon. I had never connected with anyone like this before. Somewhere in the open desert under blue, cloudless skies, or while holding hands in market squares and talking in ancient Mission pews I began to understand there was no-one I could love as perfect as this. I was stuck with the reality of her stomping her feet like a child when she didn’t get her way; that she only cried when she was angry and that she was irrational when she was hungry or tired - which could reduce some days to a few pleasant hours. After returning home we’d have to go our separate ways at the airport, and I’d have to find somewhere more permanent than a tent in Baja, Mexico for us to live together.
