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Baja Seasons Resort, Mexico
Saturday, October 2 1999
Today was the beginning of the eleventh annual two-day "bodywork consortium" hosted by Kim's workplace, V!ctoria Rose Massage. These consortiums have been held in a variety of places, and this one was to be held down near Ensenada in Mexico. V!ctoria Rose were all encouraged to bring their significant others, so of course I was going. Meanwhile, our friends Steph and EJ have moved out of the Ebb Tide Hotel and into our living room. Since Steph is working again at the V!ctoria Rose, they'd be coming along too.
After much delay, we four set out southward in Kim's Volvo. I was doing the driving, and that always puts me in something of a bad mood. I'm greedy in that I like to be able to passively absorb the scenery without also having to worry about the lives and safety of myself and my passengers (and worry I do).
To the casual visitor, Mexico definitely fills whatever craving one might have for an anarchist state. Its northern border stands almost completely undefended. For a second time we entered Mexico without encountering any actual human border agents. Though I've heard a lot of horror stories about silly SUV cowboys trying to bring their guns across the border, the story on the ground seems to be that the Mexicans don't really care what we bring with us when we come from the north.
The immediate, seeable, hearable, smellable third world poverty of Mexico didn't strike me nearly as profoundly as it did the first time. This time the only thing that stuck out was the dust, barren ground, and overall absence of lush vegetation. Aside from Tijuana's many socio-political differences from San Diego, the difference that really stands out is botanical. San Diego is an irrigated city and Tijuana is not. San Diego is a place of grassy lawns, lush bushes, endless ice plants, tall exotic palms and grand spreading Eucalyptus trees. Tijuana's vegetation consists primarily of scraggly Eucalyptus trees, the kind that haven't yet reached a size suitable for use as firewood or building material.
We were so wrapped up in the scenery that we totally missed our opportunity to purchase Mexican auto insurance. I'm told that it's a serious no-no to drive around in Mexico without suitable insurance, but hey, we were living on the edge here!
Several toll plazas down the 1D toll road, we were so distracted by the stunning mountain-meets-ocean views that we lost all track of mileposts (or, actually, kilometerposts). We were in the outskirts of Ensenada before we realized we'd gone 30 kilometers too far. The usual shouting argument between Kim and myself turned us back around on a dusty street in some godforsaken Mexican town.
Interestingly, I've heard a lot of bad things about "_____ drivers" but the _____ has never been "Mexican." Either Americans are too stupid to figure out that "FRONT BC" refers to a state in Mexico or else they've rarely had bad incidents with Mexican fellow travelers. As far as I could tell, the Mexicans all seemed to drive fairly conscientiously. The very worst drivers in Mexico were actually the SUV-driving Schteveish Californians out to prove their respective manhoods in a dusty uncivilized land. I think most of the bad things you hear about the drivers from various states comes from the fact that the only concrete thing you really know about a driver is what state he's from based on his license plates. If he drives like an asshole, you'll tell all your friends about the horrible drivers from that state, and if your story is particularly memorable, they'll tell their friends. Three degrees of separation later and we all know about New York taxi cabs.
All the communities up and down the 1D toll road appear to be isolated except for the connection made by this highway. I got off precisely one kilometer too soon as we approached our destination from the south and we found ourselves in an alien world unsuitable, I decided, for Americans such as ourselves. I thought maybe we could take some sort of scenic alternative route, but the only other means of travel along this mountainous coastline involve the use of ocean-capable watercraft.
The place where we'd be staying was called the Baja Seasons Resort. It seemed to be a tidy place catering to a largely American clientele, but it turned out to be a decidedly Mexican establishment as well. This was obvious when we ate later in the resort's integral restaurant.
Upon our late arrival, the other consortium people were all drinking beers and looking out across the wide sandy beach. We had provisions for a thoroughly Mexican lunch, buffet-style. When that was over the consortium began with a bit of team building. But it had none of the Tony Robbins vibe palpable in the team building familiar from my workplace. We were asked to integrate with each other with either a kiss, a hug, or a hip bump. Then we danced to some early 60s rock and roll and repeated the exercise. It was kind of weird, but I was already too drunk to be cynical.
After that, all the V!ctoria Rose employee types went off to their first seminar, an interactive lab concerning "raindrop therapy," the use of dropper-applied essential oils to the spine. Like many other therapies of this sort, it supposedly "boosts the immune system." (It seems that a requirement for every new therapeutic method post-AIDS has been that it boost the immune system.)
This long therapy session left a largely male contingent of V!ctoria Rose significant others with "nothing to do." "Did you bring pot?" one of these guys was asked. "Does a one-legged frog swim in circles?" he asked in rhetorical response. We guys all headed some distance away and smoked pot and talked about all kinds of interesting things while off in the distance the cold Pacific crashed upon the sand. It turned out that these various other V!ctoria Rose boyfriend types were all suprisingly intelligent and oddball in a way delightfully compatible with my personal social settings. One of them, a philosophical redhaired dude, was telling me about all the occasions in his life when he or his parents could have sued for massive damages but somehow failed. It was riveting.
The genuine lecture sections of the schedule were well-spaced, with plenty of time in between for drinking and socializing. There was a series of volleyball games on the beach that was extremely entertaining despite the fact that my team was being destroyed, largely by balls served by Kim on the opposing side. It definitely helped my attitude that my margarita was never more than 12 feet away.
In the evening we were witness to a spectacular light show from what appeared to be a military rocket launched north of the San Diego area. The rocket climbed for a long time, leaving a thin white contrail which was lit brightly against the deepening night sky by the recently-set sun. But after the rocket had reached a certain altitude, the atmosphere changed dramatically and its exhaust spread out in a thin fanlike formation which gradually turned red in the fuzzy shadow of the earth.
About all I recall from dinner was that Kim and I were in some sort of low-level conflict while her co-worker Kathleen was deciding that I wasn't as horrible as she'd pre-supposed based on Kim's many sobbing tales of woe. One concept I randomly introduced to my fellow diners was "Fallopian Food," which supposedly comes from the land of "Fallopia."
Suitably enough, Kim's boss Vivienne gave us all a lesson on Belly Dancing after dinner. I was in an absolutely perfect mood for dancing and entered into it with decided enthusiasm. But there was no way I was ever going to be able to shake my hips with the amplitude and frequency of a Vivienne. She was decked-out head to toe in black Middle Eastern garb and the bells on her hips probably contributed to my perception of her aptitude.
The Baja Season resort, viewed from the Pacific beach. The background: I know neither the name of the canyon nor the mountain it cuts into.
This English-speaking gentleman offered us $30 rides in his two-seater propeller-driven hang-glider. His son, who was riding around with him, would theoretically wait around on the beach. No one took the man up on his offer because he wouldn't accept any less than $30.
A cool couple of consortium people.
We boys shooting shit on the beach. The man on the end is Steve, the V!ctoria Rose building manager.
Consortium lunch, from left: Alley (a new V!ctoria Rose girl), Kim and EJ.
[REDACTED]
Kim is thoughtful.
Indoor scene with some of the older consortium people.
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