Burning Through XV - Completing the Cleanse

Amtrak’s Pacific Surfliner leaves San Diego central heading north at precisely 6:00 am. It’s New Years day and half of the passengers are heading for the Rose Bowl game in Pasadena. We speed along the suburb laden shoreline enroute to LA where I transfer to the train that will deliver me 36 hours later to Seattle. It’s fast, efficient and a great way to see southern California at dawn and on this day to learn the betting odds for Penn State versus USC at the Rose Bowl.

North of Santa Barbara the track hugs the wild California coast through a roadless section featuring a colourful visual palate of the invasive ice plant and range wildlife including coyotes, vultures, and deer. The aqua blue pacific mixed with the autumn colours of the ice plant, puffy white clouds and endless sky makes for a memorable stretch of iron highway. I fall asleep somewhere south of San Francisco to an orange sunset and wake up to a snow storm in northern Oregon.

I am anticipating a warm welcome as the friendliest bus driver on earth delivers us to the Canadian border. The last off the bus I am also the last in line from our bus to be interviewed. All the others get whisked through with ease. When I answer that I went to Mexico for a holiday the customs agent quipped, “going by bus to Mexico doesn’t sound like much of a holiday.” I quickly assess that the true explanation wouldn’t wash - that I went by bus because I needed to stay connected to the earth and move on the ground in order to burn through some emotional baggage; baggage which had been obstacle to getting on with my life and which obstructed truly connecting with my inner authority. Yes, it’s fortunate that I held my tongue.

It is rather upsetting when a customs agent leafs through your diary at 12:30 am after you’ve been on bus, train and bus again for 4 days straight, you smell like an Amtrak toilet and your glasses are broken so everything which is normally double because you have double vision is now triple or quadruple. My mind is moving slow but I realize he suspects me of something when he squirts out my toothpaste, reads my hotel and bus receipts, looks at the pictures on my camera and puts his latex gloved hand into my spare socks. When he asks what my wife thinks of me going to Mexico without her by bus I am speechless, but to myself I recall her laughing when I proposed the trip. By the time I am given the OK to proceed my mouth feels as dry as the Baja in August.

I feel my stomach turn over as we enter Vancouver. It’s not the graded snow piles heaped up against curb side cars that upsets me, it’s something to do with somebody I don’t know assuming I am being dishonest, that’s what really hurts. I’m so pathetically sensitive.

After a cold wait for the sky train then a bus to get to Kits, I am back in my apartment. Unlocking the door I hear Elizabeth from the bedroom say, “You’re home!,” and I feel warm and welcome. Over the next three days my body completes its cleanse with a full compliment of stomach ache, endless hiccups, diarrhea and other discharge. By the end of it I feel lighter.

What started out as a passing thought during lunch with colleagues in November 2008 turned into a transformational journey. You never know where your thoughts will take you unless you follow them.

Burning Through XIV – Passport Scanners and a Lumberjack Breakfast

Ensenada before dawn reveals this country's sleepy nature. My lonely walk to the bus terminal on lamp lit streets contrasts the touristy bustle at mid day, now devoid of diesel drenched streets. To my surprise, the 6:00 am border bus fills. As I settle in my seat the driver inserts the first of several videos chronicling 80’s “new romantic” rock. After 25 minutes of Duran Duran vintage bands pounding out spandex stunners, I consider leaping out into the foggy stretch of cliff side highway. This all helps to consolidate my feeling that I truly am done with Mexico.

An orange sun is just rising over Tijuana as we navigate her highways and overpasses. I sit anticipating the border and how I will respond to questions about why I don’t have a tourist permit. The predictable riffs of Spandau Ballet aren’t enough to distract my anxiety. To my surprise the bus trip ends at the Tijuana airport. My protests about promises of transport to the border are met with a blank stare. The driver, white dress shirt, thin Latino mustache and slicked back mullet points to the taxi station. Fifteen US dollars later and I am at US customs, one among the hundreds of Mexican day pass workers heading to San Diego to scrub floors and trim hedges for the wealthy.

I brace as the serious Customs Officer waves me forward. He glances at me then swipes my passport through his scanner saying, “proceed.” Whoosh, I am in the united States of America. I had been imagining this moment since my first pre dawn steps on the bus station tarmac in Tijuana 10 days earlier. I have been creating anxiety raising scenarios since then about what could happen if I am questioned about having no tourist permit.

I sweep past the x-ray machine out of the customs building. Its so clean I feel like I could eat off the sidewalk butting up against the shinny red trolley cars quietly loading to take sleepy passengers to San Diego. Everything seems to hum with precision. I purchase my ticket from a machine with some US dollars I purchased from a rip off money changer 50 paces the other side of the customs officer.

An hour later and I am in an American Denny’s surrounded by a lot of very big people, stuffing down a lumberjack breakfast – 3 thick pancakes dripping with sugary syrup, gobs of bacon, sausage and a giant orange juice – with pulp. Molly my waitress, with the friendly pride you only experience in these united States barks – “I’m right over here honey if y’all need anything.” America the beautiful.

Burning XIII – Northern Exposure with Toast

With a white Stetson tipped forward on his dark wizened forehead the old Mexican sitting quietly next to me paints a picture of patience. He’s a silent teacher and I can learn a lot about how to wait for a bus. The San Ignacio depot is a dirty affair, a ramshackle store front office tucked into a concrete jumble of shops. The attendant selling tickets for just the one bus uses this opportunity to argue with her mother via cell phone while her husband sets up an evening taco stand. Such is the enterprising life of San Ignacio residents.

We wait. The old man, his beautiful graying hair and perfectly trimmed mustache, nods and chats briefly with passers by as the sun drops out of the sky. Three hours of this small town Mexican bus depot ‘entertainment’ and I’m jittery. The ‘waiting’ lesson only went in skin deep.

Aquila Lines arrives and I’m all set to roll north - a 10 hour trip to Ensenada. But 5 minutes out of town we slow to a stop at the military check point. Passengers are shuffled out of the bus and told to wait as gun totting soldiers sniff the bus and search bags. I tense knowing I don’t have a tourist permit and know if they ask for my passport I could never explain why I don’t have a permit. My bag gets pulled onto a bench and I am called over. A young soldier empties my neatly packed wares onto the dusty road. “Joo ‘ave any draaggs, any gaanns?” He watches my eyes as I answer and walks away satisfied leaving me to pack it away.

The night ride through the desert begins. I pull out my sleeping bag to drift off and am woken only by the stench of the mud flats in Guero Negro. My dreams are broken and scattered but compelling enough to keep me sleeping. So much so I almost sleep through the Ensenada bus station, but wake suddenly and stumble off the bus. I say "Ensenada?" to the driver who is having a smoke with a bus station attendant. He says “Ci Ensenada ci.”

It’s 5 am and I wander the empty streets a little dazed. This tourist town wakes up early and by luck I find a place that serves good coffee, toast and eggs. The sun rises exposing one of Ensanada’s attractions, a massive Mexican flag which flaps in the cool Pacific breeze wafting a wash of shade over the foreshore. Tijuana is only an hour north. I’ll spend the day here and arrange cross border transport for tomorrow. That will get me in San Diego in plenty of time to catch the train to Seattle. Tijuana … the border … my heart races with the thought.

Burning Through XII – Jesus Turns Sand into Water

What a strange scene with the morning sun on my huevos rancheros. Those palm trees across the street don’t jive with where I am – right in the middle of the Baja. I know Jesus turns water into wine, but can He turn sand into water?

San Ignacio is more than a catholic mission I learn, it’s a true oasis. Life giving water bubbles up from deep below the Sierra de la Giganta. It cracks the surface creating a series of lakes in the centre of this wide desert valley. Desert palms rustle in the breeze beneath scorched volcanic hills topped with cactus.

The mission and it’s village are a long walk from Jorge’s Rice and Beans, the travelers hostel where I spend the night and where I inhale my morning eggs. The magnificent church with its blossoming jacaranda and the shaded central square are also an oasis for me, my body absorbing the tranquility. And inside the church, I see that Jesus really suffered. He’s always so brutalized in Mexican effigies. It’s like they need a graphic reminder that it can always get worse.


This is a lazy town. Old men play checkers in the street side pub where I enjoy a frosty Corona; tourists laze about wandering from buses to the church then over to a café; children laugh as they play a ball game in the zocalo (square); a wizened old couple sort dates in the warm sun, vultures cruise overhead and all around the ever-present craw of roosters.

I seek a higher perch, scramble up a scree slope to the top of a ridge overlooking the valley. On top I find a maze of volcanic rock and cactus. I have my moment of Baja bliss. Warm sun on my face, overlooking the oasis below and rusty hills for backdrop. Church bells below carry a sweetness to up to me, lightening my mind and body. A wispy thought tells me to suck in this moment, fill myself up with it. I know that once I leave this perch, I begin my long grind back to my couch in Kitsalino.

I know then that I have had my peak moment. Jesus created a miracle in the desert, turned the unexpected in to 5 minutes of bliss. Every bus terminal debacle, every bad meal, all the twists and turns that have led to this are worth it. I have a profound feeling that my whole life led up to this moment, but then isn’t every moment like that?

Burning Through XI - Wind Blasts me Inland

The news from home is of a white Christmas. Snow piling up, travel thwarted - delays. I wake to a cool north wind blowing from Canada straight down the Sea of Cortez. It blows me right off the veranda where I perched to start my day.

Should I stay or should I go? Waiting for the ferry means 2 days in this town and it’s getting smaller all the time. I assess my options and stay. The next days are filled with many hikes up to the top of the surrounding hills, overlooking the town and the desert, investigating the old smelter where I hear the ghosts of all the Mexicans who died making money for the man in Paris. I wander the streets to visit and revisit familiar shops and restaurants. Time slows down as my movement decreases. 20/20 hind sight says moving on would have a better choice.

My plan was to catch the ferry on the 28th and make a run from Guaymas in Sonora to catch my train in San Diego by the 31st. When I made the plan I didn’t know the north wind would cancel the ferry again.

Being immobile for those days had an ill effect. The luster from when I first arrived wore off. Yet the beauty of Santa Rosalia and it’s people stay with me even now. From this distance I see it was not the place but the sense of familiar and lack of movement that began to crowd in on me.

I knew I had to move. The bus for San Ignacio left at 4:00 pm and I was on it.

It is early evening as I roll into San Ignacio. I hop off the bus and instinctually walk down a side street and fumble with broken Spanish asking around for a hotel. An ex heroin addict visiting his family from L.A. leads me down a dirt track to the highway and points in the direction of a hotel. I wander aimlessly and turn back.

I am famished in the fading light and choose a roadside taco stand for a meal. Three generations serve me as I sit and listen to evening sounds. Cicadas begin their evening cadence as fifth wheel tractor trailers roll by, the Grandmother is crying desperately out back somewhere, and the TV is background noise to all of this. A shiny faced kid with holes in the knees of his jeans serves me coke and offers me a Chick let. It was the worst meal I had in Baja, but perhaps the most memorable.

It’s time to find a bed for the night. A waft of refried beans and diesel follow me as I make my way to a travelers hostel I found out about.

It is a long walk in the dark. Dew and desert palms line the road to the hostel - Rice and Beans. I meet a Canadian couple who have spent the past 15 years of retirement in Baja, traveling back roads with their heavy duty 4X4. I haven’t been at a travelers hostel on this trip. There is a strange but familiar ethic among road people here and lots of English. It is a good place to be for a night. Bob and Ruth tell me the catholic mission here is one of the finest in Mexico. I have part of the day tomorrow to check it out.

Burning Through X – Should I stay or Should I go …

Boxing day and I am shifting and moving as I wake. My first thought is imagining the ferry crossing … I know I want to be on the ferry to Sonora tonight. I need to leave today to have enough time to check out some of the places I researched in Sonora and start my journey back to Vancouver. Mental calculations before my foot hits the floor creates an unwarranted sense of urgency.

It’s my anniversary on 2 fronts but that part of my life seems far away. There is a passing thought followed by guilt for the absence of feelings. This is a selfish adventure and I am admittedly self absorbed. It is a trip I have needed to take for a long time. The guilt is quickly replaced by the realization that I am indeed here in this Baja town, that I got here by bus and that I have to get back. There is a lot to work out.

Boxing day is a business day I decide – book the ferry, make arrangements to use my hotel room for the day, go to the internet café and make arrangements to take the train from San Diego to Seattle. I decide on the train recognizing that while Greyhound provides a unique adventure, I’m ready to ride the rails. The bus … been there - done that.



An hour later my plans are dashed – in broken Spanish I learn the “California Star” will not travel on Boxing Day. It is a deflating discovery and it feels like groundhog day – my body remembers my Tijuana bus station debacle – destinations determined by the transportation company instead of by me the traveler. So my trip takes another unexpected swing. Decision time. The next ferry is in 2 days. Baja is long – you either go south or north. A Clash song rattles around my head as I prattle through some huevos rancheros at a corner cafe – “Should I stay or should I go now …”

I resolve my train departure. I have to be in San Diego on New Years eve to take the train early on New Years day. I have five days. It is a tense moment when I hit the purchase button with my credit card number typed in, sitting in a plywood cubicle in a storefront internet café street side in this small Mexican town. The kid next to me is playing computer games and the ever present Mariachi boom box cars chug by outside. The next screen says “confirmed” and I print out my Amtrack ticket. A wave of relief sends me out to the street. Now what …

Burning Through IX - Christmas Gifts and Movement

Veranda conversations keep me awake through the night and then wake me up Christmas morning. I hear English speakers and my ears are perked. I shuffle outside and receive some friendly advice on where to make a phone call and then a surprise offer to share a car trip to the tip of the Baja- Cabo San Lucas - to stay in a condo for free. The American couple who made the offer give me 5 minutest to decide.

I assess the offer. Does this fit with the ideals I have set for this adventure? The trip is about recognizing and learning from the decisions I make apart from familiar influences. Its about listening to my body and burning through to know my authority. So here I am faced with a major trip changing decision and virtually no time to decide. I walk away and stand by myself, looking out at the sea feeling into my body. My frugal mind is assessing - tropics, free accommodations, good company … I feel my body lean slightly to the right. Then a tingling from my legs and a knowing that to go would mean a very different kind of trip than I want and need. While a free bed in a Cabo condo is an attractive proposition, this trip is about movement, inner and outer.

I feel a slight shift back to centre and I know I must graciously say no. Doing so produces a kind of elation that carries me through the rest of Christmas day. It is my present to myself.

Later I make a Christmas call from a confectionery store to snowy Victoria and connect with Elizabeth. The call leaves me feeling warm and blessed for our friendship and her amazing support for my personal adventure.

After a coffee from the corner taco stand I take a morning trip to a another grave yard and spend several breezy hours scanning the deep blue Sea of Cortez. The sweet smell of the sea , the celebration sounds from the town below and the feeling that all is right are another gift on this day. Sitting there I feel the pull of the Sonoran desert beyond the reach of my vision. I feel the pull and know I must take the ferry on boxing day.

This trip is about movement and when I stop moving I feel the dull familiar start to creep in. Movement has the effect of a big steel wheel on a rail, producing enough heat and inertia to burn through to my core.

Burning Through VIII – Feliz Navidad - Firecrackers Blasting till dawn

Saying good bye to Guerro Negro was not difficult. I am happy to be moving knowing that tomorrow is Christmas and travel would be impossible. I step on the bus and I look ahead to the 220 km of desert between the grey Pacific and the deep blue Sea of Cortez.

Sandy rust covered hills and desolate towns dot the distance between coasts. Besides an enormous hydroponic tomato factory most of what you see at first are skinny cattle, cactus and lonely stretches of ranch fence. A couple of hours out, the bus descends into a humid valley filled with desert palms. San Ignacio – an oasis I find out later. A guy in Ensenada told me there was a catholic mission here. From the bus the place looks like a truck stop.

Increasing elevation in the centre of the Baja peninsula and the cactus grow bigger, a result of Pacific rain clouds that sweep across and dump. The Sierra de Baja California mountains cut through the Baja and create remarkably different climates from one coast to the other. The dry Sonoran desert creeps onto the Sea of Cortez shore and up the east side of the Baja. As we roll along I am anticipating a view of the Sea of Cortez. We crest a ridge and there set against the dry Sonoran desert is a deep ultramarine blue stretching into the distance. I feel both a lift and pervasive anxiety as we roll down into Santa Rosalia. Another town, another change.

I sense the ghosts of campesino labour that worked at the now burnt out smelter as the bus rolls past to the station. The haunted feeling is quickly replaced by the anticipation of Christmas and the joy of the holiday.

After getting off the bus I make my first foray into town. Its narrow streets are filled with bustle, a combination of commerce and music. Street vendors are on every corner among juice stands, bakeries, beer stores and a big central plaza with its nativity scene. I begin my search for a bed. This place is alive. Vehicles endlessly idle up and down one way streets stretching into the narrow valley containing the town. Its the night before Christmas and all is not quiet. Every second vehicle passing me booms out funked up mariachi music. Every second shop I pass has an exterior stereo system doing the same. My noise threshold has diminished from 6 years of Ashram life. Silent Night this will not be.

Santa Rosalia boasts French influence, particularly in its architecture. A French company founded the town in 1884 and exploited copper mines till 1954 when they shut down. They installed a metallic church building, argued to have been designed by Gustave Eiffel, the architect of the Eiffel Tower. The mining company director found it disassembled in Belgium, bought it in 1894 and then had it shipped over to Santa Rosalia prefab, most likely to alleviate the nostalgia of the French community who missed all things European. Yet no official blueprint of the church exists and there are serious doubts about who the actual architect was. Frankly, the building looks like it could be a machine shed on a Saskatchewan grain farm. Even so, a machine shed designed by Eiffel brings an allure and mystery.


I get a place with a great veranda adjacent to what I hope to be a quiet street. I’m drawn to the hills. I want to get up high and see the length of the place. I scramble up the hillside to a cemetery and the perch provides the view I am after. It is Christmas evening with the desert light descending and the Sea of Cortez in the background. In that moment the whole journey is worth every peso, bus line up and road side meal. The town below is full of music and light, the townsfolk are radiant with holiday spirit. I feel a quiet satisfaction. Moments like this in life are rare and they always come with a price.

Later in the evening I attend the service at the church. Hearing the bells I walk through the town and meet a swell of beautifully dressed families pouring out of Iglesia de Santa Barbara. The church is full but I stand outside listen and appreciate the sincerity of the Catholicism. From there I wander the streets and hear families along the narrow streets celebrate in their homes. Children run around the nativity scene in the central square, young men play guitar for young women under a brightly lit Jacaranda, old men stand in the middle of a side street laughing, finishing their neighborly chat with a hug.

The celebration of Christ’s birth lasts late into the night. Firecrackers blast away as I lay down at 11:00 pm and wake me up again at 3:00 am as do the boom box cars and veranda conversations. Sounds fill the air till the early morning light. It is cool with a Sea of Cortez breeze.

How long will I stay? I can get to Sonora from here. There is a ferry that crosses the sea. When does it travel?

Burning Through VII – The Mud Flat Run

I am prepared for a long ride when I settle into my bus seat, but I am not prepared for 11 hours of action movies with the volume set a millimeter below distortion. The barrage started as we made our way out of Ensenada, and included a series of Edward Norton thrillers, dubbed in Spanish. Such Hollywood inspired creations as the Incredible Hulk, Eagle Eye, Shark Swim and the cartoon fight flick Kung Fu Panda, none of which understanding Spanish were required to know the plot, motive or theme. Blowing up buildings and piling up cars is the same in Spanish and English.

My ear plugs help me divert my attention from the movies to the changing landscape. The rich farmland south of Ensenada, soon turns into rolling desert hills and scraggly cactus. The towns thin out as the land dries up and wrinkles on Mexican faces outside the bus increase. Soon we head away from the Pacific Coast into the interior. Many hours later I wake up in the Del Desierto Central Parque and out the window are the amazing Cardón cactus, the largest cactus in the world, holding onto boulders as big as houses, set against a crimson sky. I expect to see Roy Rogers clipity clop by in his 10 gallon hat riding resolute on top of Trigger. I consider getting off when we stop at a taco stand, illusions of spending the night in the desert, but the building condensation on the windows and descending temperatures inform me this would be a rather uncomfortable choice.

I cozy up in my sleeping bag, ear plugs firmly entrenched, and slumber off as we descend and wind our way for three hours back down to the coast.

The attraction to Guerrero Negro are the lagoons outside of town which are the winter homes for the very same Grey Whales that migrate past Vancouver island every Spring and Fall. The idea was attractive when I first learned of the place but stepping off the bus my nostrils are instantly filled with the dank musty decaying smell of mudflats mixed with an ever present pall of diesel. I take a few steps into the dark lit muddy streets in search of a night motel and know this is a temporary stay. The next time I see real Grey whales will be in Tofino.

In fact the closest I get to the whales is the next morning off main street – a painting on a cement wall. The overwhelming smell of decaying mud, burnt out cars on garbage filled beach, and the fact it is December 24 and I don’t want to be stuck here for Christmas, all point to the need to keep moving. I’m on a bus in 2 hours heading for the Sea of Cortez. My Christmas present is a ticket out of town. I wonder if the sea will really be as blue as I’ve been told?

Burning Through VI - Casting Back while Moving Forward

Burning Through

I’m traveling blind now, heading south into the full length of the Baja. The first hour of this trip, to Ensenada, the first kilometers south of Tijuana peaks my interest. I begin to see and smell Mexico outside of the bus terminal and I like it. Arriving in Ensenada, I begin a series of firsts. First shower in over 3 days of bus travel, first sit down meal, first horizontal sleep…

I need rest and I begin a time of collection, collecting my thoughts, assessing possibilities, resting and gaining strength.

My mind peels back through my journey to here, specifically my Greyhound melting pot rollick through America. There was Portland on the first snowy night of winter, the first of many Greyhound delays. I am one of many Los Angeles bound travelers in a weary line snaking through the station. There is not much to do in the line up but talk to the guy in front of me. Hence, through Hans, I am introduced to Republican America.

Hans is: Swiss Texan, Spanish speaking, Special Military Forces, Canadian criminal code studying, Republican bible thumping American. He tells me has just come from Vancouver where he wore his black US law enforcement officer gear “to scare all the pinko Canadians.” “Why do you allow your immigrants to stay separate in their little communities?” I make an unimpressive attempt to explain the rationale for multiculturalism, that encouraging and celebrating cultural diversity promotes social cohesion, but he dismisses this as typical Canadian liberalism.

It’s okay, we agree to disagree. There is a nano second of silence before he once again waves his Republican stripes. “I love George Bush, he has been the savior of America. In fact I worship Him.”

I … I … I don’t quite know how to respond. I know he is provoking me, inciting reaction. This is when 12 years of yoga and reflection comes in handy. I stumble, “ You … you must be upset with the election of Obama.“ Dismissive, he moves us to the next topic. I am both repulsed and attracted to him, using the opportunity to test my resolve, to remain present and engaged with somebody whose world view is so opposite to mine. His mixture of strong opinions and open mind intrigues me.

The bus trip will present many of these kinds of opportunities. Ear plugs and traveling pillow will not shelter me from the social hurricane that whips around me. America is on the move for the holidays. She stops at all night gas stations, stalked with 7-11 hoagies, jumbo soft drinks, and complete with grease puking taco bell franchise. Greyhound America is fat with fast food. Over the course of two days my bus mates change but stay the same. I recognize several who stood in line with me on the frozen dark tarmac off Main Street at the Vancouver terminal.

You share a bus trip with people for 12 hours or more and you begin to imagine a brotherhood. Yet, this brotherhood has separate agendas. We all just want to get to our destination. Sooner rather than later.

Now here I am in Ensenada. All of that seems like a dream now. My sights are set on what lay south of here, down the long stretch of desert to the south. I’ve gathered a few destinations from a conversation in a coffee shop and make plans to leave the next day. Time is running out. Christmas is in 2 days and I want to be somewhere warm and sunny before Feliz Navidad. Where will I go?