By Trina Christian  ·  Love letters to México  ·  BajaTraveler.com

While investigating San Juanico (Scorpion Bay) on Baja’s Pacific Coast, we rolled into a peaceful river estuary called La Bocana. After slowing down and setting up camp, we trudged through the sand dunes to find a beautiful, expansive, and deserted beach. We spent four hours wandering the shore, analyzing dead sea turtles and collecting amazing abalone shells and sand dollars. After a quick tortilla lunch back at the rig, we decided that rather than just watching the shore crabs, we should take the next left off the highway on our way back down the Baja.

This turn put us on a trajectory for San José de Comondú, a historic pueblo dating back to 1706. We chose it for no other reason than the map said the road was paved. The drive treated us to subtle elevation changes and diverse rock formations, including “tent rocks,” alongside a constant palm oasis and clear water that actually ran over the road in a few places.

We encountered no other RVs on the way until—poof—we were there.  “There” being the literal end of the road, 37 km from Francisco Villa. In the 32°C heat, we surveyed the town on foot, walking over uneven, raised cobblestones. We realized that if we carefully skirted some treetops and parked cars, we could slip past the town square to a side street. We parked beside the remnants of a 300-year-old casa that offered just enough shade. With no room to turn around, we didn’t have much of a choice anyway.

Wandering around the pueblo we noticed that probably more than half the buildings were vacant and in disrepair but the other half held children and grandma’s making dinner, and open front doors that offered a view into their garden area and lives. As the sun disappeared behind the hill and the air cooled, the pueblo came to life. It was Sunday, the beginning of Semana Santa (Easter Week) and local families were setting up picnics under the palms. A cement irrigation canal, teeming with fish, ran right past their picnic area. We appeared to be the only “gringos” in town, but everyone greeted us with a friendly “Buenas Tardes.“

Hungry, we asked two men in the street if the hotel restaurant was open. They shared a shrug and a “Si,”  leading us to a limited but delicious menu of Tostadas and Machaca. We shared the evening with a white Siamese cat with deep blue eyes who seemed to enjoy the dinner as much as we did.

Later, while we were playing cards with the RV door open, a small lady and a little girl approached our screen. She introduced herself and let us know that if we were looking for food, she made burritos, tacos, and empanadas. Though we had already eaten, we promised to see her in the morning (mañana). I gave the little girl a punch balloon; minutes later, she returned with her sister in tow, hoping for another. Note to self: Bring more balloons.

After an average night of sleep—interrupted by the exact required amount of Mexican dogs barking at one another until midnight—I awoke to see three black-and-white kittens zipping around the town square, chasing each other up tree trunks. Brent was already out there with his coffee when the woman from the night before, “Lupita”—  invited us into her home. Her garden was a tropical masterclass: succulents, cacti, amaryllis, and fruit trees all thrived in the oasis soil. She picked a Loquat for us—a fruit that looks like a small apricot but tastes like a cross between an apricot and a cherry, only ten times juicier. On her tin roof, two Siamese cats named Romeo and Juliet played near a cage of chickens. Lupita is a woman of many talents. She showed us her intricate needlework and beading; finding a common interest, I brought out some of my yarn to share with her. Before we could leave, she insisted we stay for breakfast. We sat down to homemade corn tortillas, fresh salsa, organic eggs, refried beans, and excellent coffee. As the “Abuela” of the neighborhood, she seemed to be a social hub; people constantly popped their heads in to check on her. We learned she had a long career as a social worker for the municipal police, helping families affected by domestic violence.

When it came time to go, she refused payment for the meal. Instead, we gave her some shrimp we had picked up in Punta Chivato. Her eyes lit up; shrimp are a rare and expensive luxury in the pueblo. We exchanged contact information—it turns out she uses WhatsApp to keep up with her grandkids in La Paz—and she gave us a parting grin: “When I come to Canada, you make me breakfast“.

On the way out of town, we stopped at the oasis so Brent could take one last dip with the fish. We spent the rest of the day talking about our chance encounter. It was a perfect reminder of why you should always take the unknown left; otherwise, you might miss the very memories that make travel and life meaningful.