The sun is much stronger in El Sargento, the weather much more predictable, mornings in the mid 60s, afternoons in the high 70s. This was the weather that we’ve been looking for, finally allowing us to begin to put away our winter clothes, and replace them with our California summer layers. Shorts and t-shirts for the day, hoodies for the evening.
The preparations for and travel of the last few months now complete, our home and office in its resting place for the next month or so, and the return of predictably always on sunshine all contributed to a huge boost of morale for the captain and crew, and allowed us to again refocus our energies on work.
Our Zoom customer support sessions now requiring sunglasses became so much easier to present, the sunshine filling up the space, permeating through us transmitted through the computer to customers on the other end, who then get bathed by those very same rays from thousands of miles away.
Outside our doors, a completely different work happens by more analog nomads, free range street cows in their daily routine of grazing their way through the thorny flora of Baja.
That evening we were invited to a potluck dinner at a friend’s of our traveling companion who had built a substantial cartel money sized compound near the beach, though I’m not implying any such connection. On several acres of old growth cactus, none of which could be removed during construction, the outdoor and indoor spaces blending together harmoniously.
A gringos only event, each conversation with a new person, started with “how do you know so and so”, and ended with a lament about how the place has changed.
“I’ve been coming here for years, and it’s different now. So many more outsiders coming in buying up property. Since we bought our house, there is so much traffic on the water, and on the road. It’s just not like it used to be…”
I’m still not quite sure if they realized that they are the foreigners changing the place.
The following evening, we went out with our friends to our first restaurant since we arrived at El Sargento, one that seemed to be as Mexican as they come.
Frequented by locals, and local strays, and staffed by locals alike.
We both ordered tamarind margaritas, though mine was with mezcal, instead of the usual tequila. The rims dressed with Lisa’s favorite tajin chili lime seasoning. The dishes on which the food was served were the exact same pattern as those found in Lisa’s mom’s curio, ones brought from Mexico nearly half a century ago.
Our waitress’ name was Bella, hip, young mother from Acapulco, her young kids running around the restaurant, playing with the dogs.
She did not share the laments that I heard the previous night. She moved to El Sargento for the seasonal work, and to be somewhere safe. In the town where she came from she was far from safe, with extortion and violence inescapable. The bad guys didn’t care if you were rich or poor, if you didn’t pay, they would chop your fingers or ears off with a machete.
“I love Baja, it’s not like other places. Do you know how nice it is to walk alone down the street and feel completely safe?”
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