hard questions in baja: does this lifestyle still make sense?
Dates: December 15, 2022 - January 7, 2023
Distance: 778 mi / 1,252 km
Route: Guerrero Negro > San Ignacio > Bahia de Concepción > Loreto > Todos Santos > Cabo San Lucas > San Jose del Cabo > East Cape > Los Barriles
En route to the state border and western coast of Baja, we headed south from the gulf side on Highway 5. We climbed into mountainous terrain as we crossed inland and picked up the scarily narrow and shoulderless Highway 1. Groves of massive cardon cacti were soon overcome by what looked like an orange moss draped over their limbs and adding a pop of much-needed color to this barren landscape.
Soon we would cross into Baja California Sur where we would spend several weeks lazing about on beautiful beaches, catching up with friends, fumbling horrendously with the Spanish language, eating all the fish tacos, and in the midst of all of this wonderfulness, I would find myself gripped in the throes of yet another long covid crash.
Side note: For those of you who are geographically inclined, you may be aware that the Baja peninsula is actually divided into two separate states: Baja California and Baja California Sur. For the rest of you, don’t worry–you’re not alone. It wasn’t until we were on the peninsula and looking more closely at Google Maps that I finally connected the dots and came to this realization, among others, about the fairly straightforward geography of this part of Mexico. Mike wants it stated for the record that he was in fact aware of this.
laundry & language struggles
In search of groceries, water, and clean clothes, we entered the town of Guerrero Negro on the west coast of the peninsula just after crossing the state border. We paid for one night of camping, with showers and bathrooms included, in a parking lot behind a hotel and then set off to run our errands.
Our campsite for a night in a hotel parking lot in Guerrero Negro.
By this point, we had been in Mexico for a week and had become painstakingly aware of our extremely limited Spanish-speaking abilities. As someone who studied French for many years, learned to speak the local language of Wolof in Senegal, and generally picks up on new languages relatively easily, I am not accustomed to being at a complete loss when it comes to trying to communicate with others. Having studied two years of Spanish in high school, and with the strong similarities between Spanish and French, reading Spanish is actually quite doable for me. But when it comes to responding to someone in Spanish or asking a question, my brain somersaults about, switching first from English to French, then French to Wolof, and then inconveniently blanks on anything relevant in Spanish.
Tasty fish tacos in Guerrero Negro, courtesy of Tacos El Muelle.
On this particular day in Guerrero Negro, Mike pulled the truck to a stop in front of the lavandería (laundromat). I hopped out and walked inside, lacking much of a plan besides the hope that the person working here would speak English, like most of the Mexican people we had met thus far.
“Hola, ¿hablas inglés?” (Do you speak English?)
With a demure smile, she shook her head no. And then with a raised finger, telling me to wait, she pulled out her phone and redirected the conversation from our lips and the sounds of our voices to the tapping of our fingertips and the reading of words before our eyes on small, handheld screens.
Laundry woman: How can I help?
Me: Do we leave the laundry here and pick it up later?
Laundry woman: She nodded.
Me: How long will it take?
Laundry woman: It depends on how much laundry you have.
Me: I think it will only take one machine.
Laundry woman: Can you bring the laundry in so I can see?
Me: I walked out and returned with our basket of laundry.
Laundry woman: Yes, one machine will work. Come back in 4 hours.
The conversation, quiet and filled with awkward pauses as we each waited for the other to tap out her response, was nonetheless effective. I left our laundry and knew when to come back to retrieve it.
Four hours later, we returned to the lavandería. I casually walked inside, expecting to find the same woman working, who would surely recognize me and know that I was there to pick up what I had dropped off earlier that day.
A borrowed image from Google Maps of the laundromat in Guerrero Negro.
Apart from the laundry machines and a woman folding pieces of clothing towards the back, the room was completely empty as it had been before. However, I wasn’t sure if the woman folding the clothes was the same person I had “spoken” with earlier. She was clearly wearing a different outfit, but perhaps she changed between now and then while on her lunch break? Her dark hair and shorter height seemed about the same as I remembered, but having spent most of my time staring at my phone rather than her face during our conversation earlier, I couldn’t be sure if the woman here was the same person.
That is until she looked at me with zero recognition and asked what I assumed was “how can I help you?” Looking like a deer caught in the headlights, my brain sped up and froze at the same time. I patted my pockets, realized I left my high-tech language translator (aka my phone) in the truck, and then attempted to conjure up whatever fragments of Spanish I could. I opened my mouth to speak, trying to shove the French phrases out of my mind and land on something relevant in Spanish, but alas–nada. Taking pity on my apparent internal strife, she held up the shirt she was in the process of folding, raised her eyebrows and waved the shirt, as if to ask if this was the reason I was here. Indeed, it was.
Feeling silly, I waited for her to finish folding our clothes and fought the urge to help. It felt intrinsically wrong not to, but that was the service we were paying for and the way things were done at this lavandería. Shortly thereafter, poignantly reminded of why I wanted to improve my Spanish, I was sent on my way with the basket of freshly scented and expertly-folded clothing in hand, all for only $8 USD (160 Mexican pesos).
holidays away from home
If you’ve ever spent the holidays away from home or the setting where you would typically mark a special annual occasion, you know how disorienting it can be. We’ve arrived at the point in our currently-jobless lives where we often couldn’t tell you what day of the week it happens to be. But as we ventured further south and the weather got warmer, it soon became difficult even to discern which month we were in, let alone to feel as though Christmas was soon approaching (despite Mike’s insistence on constantly listening to Christmas music).
So when some friends of ours invited us to meet up with them a few hours away near Todos Santos, we took them up on their offer. Not only would being among friends add to the spirit of the holidays, but they also offered to share their Starlink satellite internet, allowing us to video chat with the loved ones we were missing back home too.
The last time we saw our friends @tsavo_touring was in Canada while we were on our way south from Alaska and they were on their way north. We expect to continue yo-yo’ing with them as we both head down to Argentina.
Though we missed our folks and–let’s be honest–the holiday meals and treats from home, we had the opportunity to experience something else on this special day, entirely unique to any previous holiday experiences of ours. After a shared breakfast of soyrizo scrambled egg tacos, video calls and opening presents with our families, we eventually made our way down the beach to Tortugueros Las Playitas, a Sea Turtle Conservatory.
Soyrizo and scrambled eggs taco bar
These gifts journeyed with us all the way from Ohio and made it across the border without our six year-old nephew’s impeccable wrapping getting disturbed. Thoughtfully the gifts consisted of Spanish learning materials, new field notebooks, some other items we requested and Mike’s favorite beer—Great Lakes Christmas Ale—which he shared with our friends.
What better way to celebrate the day than by witnessing one of nature’s many miracles–the beginning of a new life cycle of baby sea turtles as they bravely ventured down the sandy embankment head-on towards the giant waves. Side by side with our friends, we earnestly watched as each tiny little being fought with all their might to close the gap of great distance from where they were to the edges of the tide, where they would be swept away into a whole new world, unknown to them, but somehow familiar.
The thing about traditions is that they’re usually handed down to us, from generation to generation. We typically serve as their stewards, not their designers. But when you strip away the usual customs associated with a special day, it forces you to reconsider what importance that day actually holds for you, and it gives you the opportunity to craft a new way to celebrate, one that is particularly meaningful for you. For us, the common thread that we come back to, time and time again, is simply the act of being in community. Being part of a greater whole, creating new memories together, and freely sharing food, stories, compassion, and love. And that is exactly what we did.
Crashing realities of full-time overland travel with chronic illness
It’s often hard to tell what exactly brings on my Long Covid crashes. A walk that was too strenuous, doing too much of household (or camper) chores, feeling overwhelmed emotionally, a change in diet or medications, or more often than not, a complex combination of many different factors.
Before arriving in Baja, we were hustling. Emotional goodbyes with my family in Ohio led to long days of driving to get us to Texas and from there, to the Mexican border. It’s almost as if my body was just hanging on until we finally got into Mexico and slowed down before deciding to go into deep repair mode (i.e. a crash).
To provide some context, I typically feel a varying level of symptoms on a daily basis, whether it’s fatigue, some shortness of breath, facial flushing, joint pain, vertigo, racing heart rate and palpitations, and so on. On most days, these symptoms are very manageable, as long as I’m careful with my energy expenditure so as not to surpass my threshold of activity tolerance. But when a crash inevitably hits, everything is amplified.
Within hours of crossing the border into Baja, a bout of fatigue settled in and would linger in fluctuating intensity for our first four weeks in Mexico. Three or four hour long naps often dominated my days, which is annoying but easy enough to handle since I’m not working nor have many pressing responsibilities to tend to (i.e. children). Mike is more than used to picking up my slack, and our lifestyle is quite suitable for sleeping away the days in the camper. The trickier part of these crashes to navigate, though, isn’t the mere drowsiness, but the intense physical fatigue and pervasive bodily weakness usually accompanied by severe breathing difficulty.
On the worst days, the simple act of standing up is too much, and doing so can cause every figurative speck of energy to wash away leaving me drained–too weak to stand, too exhausted to talk, and utterly breathless. These kinds of days have been relatively rare in the past year or two, but since entering Baja, they have become far too common.
For example, one day, after an evening of hanging out with some friends and a quiet morning of meditation and gentle stretching on the beach, I was helping get the camper in order to drive to the town of Los Barriles. I stepped outside to chat with one of our friends, and quickly realized I needed to sit down. Mike had already packed up the camp chairs and removed the accordion staircase that leads up to the camper, so I sat on the small, metal hitch-step mounted a foot below the camper door. However, sitting down didn’t seem to impede the worsening flood of symptoms. My body hunched over as my breath became increasingly labored, my eyelids felt heavy, and the contents of my body were seemingly transforming from muscle and bone to mushy jello.
I called to Mike, “can… you… walk… me… to… the… front?” Understanding I wanted to get in the cab of the truck to rest and catch my breath, Mike helped me stand up. I didn’t think I was going to make it to the truck cab without collapsing; each step forward was its own mountain to climb. But we made it there. Mike opened the door and I let my upper body collapse onto the seat, tears beginning to stream down my face. We waited a few moments this way before Mike helped hoist me up into the seat. I didn’t say goodbye to the friends with whom we were parting ways, for the mere thought of moving my arms to roll down the window and wave was too much.
To break it down, in the past month I’ve had about five days like the one I just described, slightly more relatively good days, and the rest, making up the majority of my days in Baja, have been somewhere in between–days that could have been worse but still often relegated me to hours of rest in bed.
There have been a number of times over the past month when Mike and I have wondered if this life still makes sense for us right now. If I can’t experience much beyond the walls of our camper, will I still enjoy traveling through Central and South America? If Mike is forced to explore new places and cultures on his own, knowing I want to join him but can’t, will it all be less rewarding for him? Would living in one place, seeing doctors regularly and experimenting with treatment options be a better way for us to spend the next few years?
Maybe. But we don’t know… about any of it.
We loved the calm waters of the various beaches along the Bahía de Conceptión.
What I do know is that in the past two and a half years of living with Long Covid, I’ve always found myself on the other side of a crash–perhaps a little worse off than before, but still able to return to a higher level of functioning. I also know that being on the move, traveling, and being close to nature are all true forms of medicine for my physical condition and mental health.
In no way do I believe that Baja is to blame for this crash, rather, quite the contrary. Perhaps my body recognizes that here, with no demands on my time or energy, I actually have an opportunity to rest deeply. Who knows for sure, but either way, Baja has been the perfect host during these challenging weeks by generously offering us its quiet beaches, nourishing sunshine, and plentiful ocean-life entertainment, easily enjoyed from bed through the camper window.
For all of this and more, we’re beyond grateful for Baja. And for now, we’re continuing on this Pan-American journey.
Hanging out in our campsite at an RV park in Los Barriles.
