I have found my way back to Baja for another kayak guide training course which departs in the morning. I love everything about these trips- the amazing interface between desert and ocean, the shifting colors of ocean and sky, the feeling I have when I stretch out under a dome of stars, feeling great after a full day of paddling, snorkeling, and hiking; lungs full of fresh air and belly full of fresh food.My Mexican colleague, Isis, is a delight to work with, picking up my slack with logistical concerns and making the best guacamole and tortilla soup you'll find anywhere. We have a routine by now and it just gets more and more fun. During the course we taught in April we returned to visit our friends on Isla San Jose, two generations of ranchers who have lived on an impossibly beautiful stretch of remote beach for fifty years, the only residents of the entire island. We met them on our first visit to the island three years ago, when we stopped in to buy a goat. The old man, Tacho, carefully selected the animal and humanely slaughtered it, while his daughter Linda pounded out fresh tortillas and chopped pico de gallo for a most memorable taco experience. The following year, we paddled up to the beach unannounced and they greeted us warmly, saying that just the week prior, they'd been wondering if we'd ever come back. Linda's husband Fernando took me fishing for red snapper off the rocks that evening as pelicans dove for their dinner, backlit by a magnificent sunset. Soon a bucket was filled and Linda worked her magic again. Before leaving the next morning, we showed our thanks by humping a few dozen sacks of concrete up to the ranch house from the beach. Coming back this year, the greeting was even warmer, like a meeting of old friends. Typically reticent Linda dropped her work and beamed as she embraced Isis. This time we celebrated with a goat and some fish. We helped Tacho thatch a roof and dug a new watering hole for the livestock. The students had the unique opportunity to see what life is like for a rural Mexican family eking out a simple living in a fantastic place.
After the gear was washed from that April course, I caught a flight to Mexico City. In 48 hours I soaked up as much street food and culture and tequila as I could. I found delicious tacos al pastor right around the corner from my hotel near the Zocalo, plus heaps and heaps of wonderful pastries at La Vasconia, and a wonderful omelet stuffed with Oaxaca cheese across the street at cafe El Popular. I marveled at Diego's mural at the palace, and at the Pre-Columbian treasures collected at the Museum of Anthropology and stood in Diego and Frida's amazing kitchen in the Coyacan neighborhood. Memo, a friend of my guiding colleagues, showed me around the university area and fed me delicious tequila plus some squash blossom quesadillas. I love to hit a new city this way, short and sweet, on public transportation- leaving groggy and full of good food and a bit hungover, with a couple museum ticket stubs in my pocket and sore feet.
A bus took me to San Miguel de Allende, a well-preserved colonial city four hours to the west of the capital. I think it was west, I never looked at a map. Kristin was studying Spanish there and we had made plans to spend a few weeks together, our crazy international itineraries intersecting again after our three months in Africa.
It felt like an odd place, incredibly beautiful yet hollow, like a Faberge egg. It's a mecca for a certain kind of retired American and you see them everywhere- he in an expensive Panama hat, she with a grey ponytail, both in loose-fitting linen clothes, feeling just a little smug that they have found the authentic Mexico. The place caters to them, with more than its share of yoga studios, juice bars, transcendental meditation classes, and posh home furnishing stores.
I can definitely appreciate the appeal- it's a great place for long walks through the cobblestone streets and all aspects of life seem saturated with color. But it was all just a bit too precious.
When Kristin wasn't in school we too went for those long walks and marveled at those colors and bought huge sacks of produce from the markets and dove into some serious cooking.
We sat on the roof and sipped margaritas, munching on Isis' guacamole and some improvised salsas. We started each day with a vampiro, a blend of fresh beet, orange, and carrot juice; until one beet took the blame for our brief bout of Moctezuma's revenge.
We stuffed poblano chiles with oaxaca and requeson cheese and baked the most delicious chile rellenos ever. We blended leftover black beans for delicious enfrijoladas, and gently sauteed squash blossoms to fold into quesadillas. When Kristin got her way, we went out for posole at La Alborada, where an old woman stirs a cauldron of the magical stuff like a witch from MacBeth. We strolled through the streets in a downpour, squeezed under an umbrella while everyone else huddled under eves, and made our way to a cafe for an authentic Mexican chocolate con churros. Once inside, I mocked the owner, a famous Argentine actress, for covering the place in photos of herself, then realized she was sitting at the next table.
My last week in SMA coincided with Semana Santa, and the pageantry was impressive. It had begun two Sundays before Easter, with a dawn procession to bring a treasured statue of Jesus from one town to the next. The whole route was carpeted in the amazing murals of crushed flower petals and herbs, and the streets were strung with garlands and lined with lanterns and real and paper flowers. It was an amazing spectacle. Another evening, dedicated to the Virgin Mary, saw altars pop up all over town in public places and inside houses, also elaborate and containing symbolic flowers, herbs, and bitter oranges. People walked the streets and visited the altars, where they were offered a drink or frozen treat that symbolized something I've forgotten. Other days there were elaborate processions through the streets, complete with Jesus being flogged, and hundreds of locals playing Roman soldiers.
Our final weekend together was ripe with symbolism, and not just the Christian kind. On Holy Saturday we hesitantly went to a bullfight. It was very interesting and quite beautiful in many ways, but also disturbing and sad. The bull was destined to suffer and die....there was no other possible outcome here. We also saw a couple men dragged off to the hospital after the bull got a piece of them.
On Easter Sunday we gathered in the square for the "destruction of the Judases". Colorful, life-sized pinatas of human figures were hanging above the street- maybe 20 of them. One by one their fuses were lit, they spun for a while and then exploded into bits. When the smoke cleared there was nothing left but a pile of wreckage- kids scrambled to grab a leg or arm, and the heads were gathered to be auctioned off.
Later we sipped drinks and played backgammon at a roof-top bar and smiled and laughed. I would leave the next morning, and we would return to our separate lives. But for right then, there was one last perfect Mexican sunset, and the best taqueria in the world just a short cab ride away.
