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An Informal Military Checkpoint - The People of Baja
Baja Is for Everyone Essay Entry
JSA Lowe
Informal Puesto Control de Militar – Military Check Point
From high in the boulder-crusted hilltops on the road to San Borja, I could already see what I had most feared: vehiculos parked next to and/or people doing vague distant somethings outside of our tiny white Honda. All my cash and my passport were in the pocket of my hiking pants, but everything else we had with us was packed in the car. With painful slowness, the Brujo and I started downhiking, me encumbered with my usual slung-on bag of gathered firewood, like some modern hippie hillwoman, him scampering on ahead and inspecting various cacti on the way.
By the time we’d worked our way down to the flats, about half-an-hour later, we could see through the clear air exactly who they were: two khaki-covered military transport jeeps and about a dozen soldiers in desert camo, milling around our car, smoking cigarettes, and waiting patiently. We still had a half-hour walk ahead of us and I slid my hand inside the Brujo’s.
“Scared?”
“Yeah.”
We joked and pointed out plants we’d already seen, but both grew quieter as we approached. I kept nervously checking my firewood bag for scorpions. I couldn't imagine why these men were here: were we on some kind of protected land? Would we be hassled, would they put the mordita on us? Were they real military or breakaways? Should I ditch my firewood? Or was I just being once again a paranoid gabacha?
As we walked up to the group, I noticed how careful both he and I were both being to 
keep our body language neutral and casual, confident yet subservient, deliberately polite; I seemed to have added a new, friendly sidle to my walk, like a cat or dog trying to signal that I wasn’t a threat and not to jump me. My imagination roared gamely with appalling outcomes.
It was strange: you could tell right away which young man was the leader. He was leaning against the back of one of the jeeps, his boot up on the bumper, while all the other soldiers in the convoy stood 
around him in an attentive semi-circle. I immediately thought of him as the captain. He was brown and clear-eyed; they all were, from spending their lives outside and looking into the distance.
His arms were folded across his chest. We were absolutely in the middle of nowhere, miles off Mexico 1 and there wasn’t a sound to be heard. Their rifles gleamed black in the sunlight. The captain’s pants had a single crisp crease down the center of each leg.
“Buendía, señor.” He nodded. I made what I hoped was appropriately modest eye contact, smiling only slightly and somehow seeking to indicate, with every fiber of my being, that we meant no harm, that we just wanted to be left in peace and to go on our way.
“Where you come from?” he said in English, with a jerk of his head that meant both wariness and a willingness to be reasonable.
I shifted my weight in my hiking boots, keeping my eyes down, and let the Brujo answer. “Bahía de los Angeles.”
“Where you going to?”
“Um…Bahía de los Angeles.” I repeated this, nodding affirmation. The men rustled faintly, somehow acknowledging the silliness of our answer but warning us to continue to be respectful to their leader. “Acampar,” I added helpfully, “para las vacaciones.”
We squinted up at him, waiting. He unfolded his arms and jerked his head again toward the hills.
“What you doing here?”
“Hiking,” we answered, more or less simultaneously. “Walking.” Somehow our posture changed to indicate our clothing corroboratively. Like him we gestured agreeably toward the hills. “It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” the Brujo added in English, opening his hands to include the sunshine and open sky.
There was a pleasant silence.
Suddenly I peered up at the captain and added mischievously, with my college French accent, “Pic-nic?” There was a spattering of laughter from the soldiers and their leader permitted himself an almost entirely invisible smile.
“Bueno, bueno. Okay. You go now.”
We all got into our vehicles and, with painstakingly appreciative waves and nods, pulled onto the road to Báhia and drove away, the jeeps immediately zooming far ahead of our car at Mexican speed, half-a-dozen soldiers in each one, watching us blankly out the back of their canvassed convoys as they passed and were gone.
The Brujo and I looked at each other, momentarily speechless.
“What…the heck…was that?”
We laughed hysterically and talked volubly in our relief, swerving down the tiny desert highway. If only our Spanish had been better; what we would have asked them, all the things we would have wanted to know. What were they looking for? Were they concerned for us or worried about something else? Did they like their jobs? How had they decided to join the military? Where were they all from? Were they regular in the area or just passing through?
When we got to Bahía, the two jeeps were both at Abarrotes Xitlali. It was that embarrassing situation where you say goodbye to someone very thoroughly and then you run into them again. We had to smile forcedly and nod at different members of the band before we went inside to buy Submarinos and ice and tinned milk; then again at the register, where they milled around talking to the checker and buying cigarettes; and once more when we reemerged to put our groceries in the car and empty the cooler, dumping the cold water onto the ground and adding fresh hielo. As we drove out of town toward La Gringa and our campground we saw them again, pulling up to a taquería and hopping out of their convoys for what was apparently lunch.
“They must be, like, the local patrol.”
“You know what I wish? I wish I’d had the presence of mind to ask them if they would let me take your picture together with them!"
"Wow, that would have been so cool! A dozen of those tough-looking guys all gathered around me—maybe they would have wanted a copy, too!"
"Well, and we could have emailed one to them. Wouldn’t that have been great for your blog?”
I could imagine it perfectly and indeed it would have been great for my blog. But I was just glad we’d parted ways peaceably. Next time, I promised myself, as always—next time my Spanish will be better. Next time, I'll know just what to say. Next time, next time—always dreaming, even half-asleep in my tent in Bahía listening to the lapping waves, of the next time I'll be back in Baja.
