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in baja sur in baja norte
courtesy of |
A thousand majestic date palms tower above me, the bamboo and the reeds. Twelve vultures, bold suckers, are eyeing me and two-stepping their way closer, hoping I leave. They intend to finish off that five-foot moray eel whose carcass has floated as far from the Sea of Cortez as the river could take it, before having its eyes pulled like strings by these unfortunate and hideous birds. Twenty minutes past sundown, I am to meet Brother Hans and Father in downtown Mulege for Thanksgiving dinner. Right now, they are paddling up this river from the mouth at the Sea of Cortez. We came to Mulege because it is a rare desert oasis: an incident of Spanish missionaries spitting their spanish date seeds along the riverbanks of a vast estuary three hundred years ago, making of it all a shadowy place between the badlands. John Steinbeck passed up Mulege because it was rumored to be malarial. Most others passed it up because it was Mexico's infamous no-walls jail where prisoners were allowed to roam the streets until the bell tolled at sundown. Today, Americans still pass up Mulege because 'what's there?', and Mexicans' because the only economy is the pleasing of a few geritol-expats, a squid-packing facility, and agriculture and ranching which faces a 10 year drought.
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I like the idea of being where I am now, in a place where roosters
are crooning about, and people are selling used hack-saws and post-hole
diggers and air-compressors. Actually, I am beneath that place, at the
bank of the clammy-green Rio Mulege, in the reedy section where most of
the water is stagnant and swampy. 
