I now know the cost of communing with nature.

    100 bucks. Or 900 pesos. Given in cash to Henoc at the Bar Flojos in San Ignacio before he'll even bother to stop heating tortillas over a stove in the back of the bar. o­nly when he's got his cash, (he prefers dollars, of course) does he give any indication that he'll take me to the whales, and even then, all he says is, "Meet at my van in treinta minutos, half hour." He goes back to ladling refried beans into his breakfast tortillas. The Baja sun climbs over the date palms fringing the campground-bar complex, and I wait in the dusty lot by his early 80's Chevy van, dreaming of arcing whales connecting the blues of ocean and sky.

     I am in Baja California, Mexico, with AdventureBus, a company whose raison d'etre is to mix a bunch of people o­n a bus, send to an exotic location, expect adventure. The Baja peninsula is usually synonymous with Tijuana, donkeys spray-painted like zebras, and puking 18-year olds stumbling back to the border. Believe it or not, I want none of that kind of adventure. I came here hoping for a different Baja, o­ne with whales and turtles and 25-foot cacti and pristine beaches. Original, I know. AdventureBus organizes a nine-day journey with an emphasis o­n ecotourism. A bumpy, wonderful journey down a finger of land jutting into the Pacific and Sea of Cortez that Jacques Cousteau o­nce called "the world's aquarium.

Adventure Soccer-Mom Style


     I meet Kyle Lapp, the owner of AdventureBus, and driver extraordinaire, o­n the curb in front of the Metropolitan Hostel in San Diego. The passengers are throwing backpacks up to Steve o­n the roof, who ties them under a tarp. Kyle relaxes o­n a bench seat, wholly unconcerned with corralling the ten of us into an organized mob. He believes that all good mobs form o­n their own. We begin to introduce ourselves. Ardell is a frequent Baja traveler, with a long blonde ponytail and a personal vendetta against the pope. Michelle is taking a break from her first year in medical residency in Boston to visit her brother in San Diego, but has left him behind for the desert. Larry and Lindsey from Miami University of Ohio are bouncing off the walls with excitement. (Escaping Ohio can do that to a person.) Claire's English accent is wonderfully incongruous in the desert. Hiroshi from Japan is backpacking solo around the States for a few weeks and learning English. I ask why he's going to Mexico now. "To learn English," he replies with a big smile. I don't get everyone's name, but we'll be in close quarters for the next few days. There's time.

     The Adventure Bus itself is phenomenally disappointing. No retrofitted school bus to give me 5th grade flashbacks. No chance of Baja's infamous potholes launching those in the back seat three feet into the air. No Vanagon-inspired foldout beds, or hippie-influenced beads dangling in aisles, or Mexican-styled airbrush artwork along the sides. I am crushed when I first see the simple soccer-mom white, 14-passenger van. That is, until Kyle remarks that my dream vehicle would be a glaring advertisement for the sort of robbery-and-federale-bribing-adventures I want no part of. (Besides, they actually do have a massive, logo-tattooed, 35-person Adventure Bus - just not for this small group.)

     Then, we're driving south to the border, past yellow highway signs warning of illegal immigrants dashing across the road, the Pacific o­n our right. Steve, Kyle's buddy who's been coerced into being his assistant, rides shotgun and cracks jokes nonstop while combing his hair meticulously.

      "Before we get to the federale checkpoint, give all guns and drugs to Steve," Kyle reminds us.

     "Hey now, I don't want anything to do with guns," Steve replies.

     I'm not sure where the adventure ahead lies: in the raw hills of a sun-baked peninsula, or the plush gray benches of a 14-passenger van.

     

Three Tacos Pescado for o­ne Sand Dollar


     I love the fish taco alley in Ensenada, with its dozens of vendors in booths painted with swordfish and leaping dorado, screaming at me, "Tacos pescado, amigo! Tree por o­ne dollar!" The Midwesterners in our crew do not know the subtle perfection of crisp batter-fried fish in a tortilla. We sit o­n a restaurant balcony overlooking the harbor crowded with fishing boats and tourist yachts. Fish and shrimp tacos with bowls of crisp cabbage, fresh-cut salsa, tomatillo and fire-hot salsa, creamy white sauce and limes. A mariachi band plays son jalisciense somewhere below us, and the sounds and smells of coastal Baja filter up around us (plucked guitar strings and cries of "one dollar," pungent fresh fish and ocean salt and diesel exhaust.)

     Along the waterfront in Ensenada vendors sell churros, long strings of fried dough rolled in sugar and cinnamon. Families line the concrete bulwark. o­ne bite of churro for the kids, o­ne bit ripped off and tossed to the seagulls. Pelicans waddle among the people, snapping at trash and churros dropped o­n the ground. Several sea lions begin barking in the water below the wall. More churros for the sea lions. This isn't intended as ecotourism, but it reminds me how differently people relate to nature.

     What is ecotourism anyway? Am I even considered a "green" traveler? After all, I have backpacked off-trail in the Sierra Nevada, and taken diesel-belching buses across the Andes. The United Nations Environment Program says ecotourism "contributes actively to the conservation of natural and cultural heritage; includes local and indigenous communities in its planning, development and operation, and contributing to their well-being." Lots of words, but, does buying a churro and tossing it to a barking seal fall under this definition? Probably not. Sport fishing is huge in Baja, especially in Ensenada and Cabo San Lucas. If some gringos catch a few fish and a few hundred bucks go to the local fisherman and his community, is that green tourism? What about our own trip through Baja?

     The United Nations has actually declared 2002 to be the International Year of Ecotourism, the year to pay attention to where our hiking boots tread and where our dollars and pesos are spent. Baja, like many other sensitive environments, is a microcosm of the intersection of conservationist ideals and economic reality. In many ways, Baja is at a crossroads: between the U.S. and Mexican mainland; between Pacific, desert, and tropical ecosystems; between wilderness conservation and unchecked economic development. What path Baja takes depends, in no small part, o­n travelers like us.

     

Maybe Kyle sees the cloud of questions in my eyes. "We're o­nly two hours south of the border, folks. Baja is longer than Italy. The farther south we drive, the more Baja changes and the better it becomes."

     Later, after we've fallen asleep propped up against each other in our seats, Kyle pulls into Cielito Lindo, a small beach bar where we can camp. There is no moon. I can o­nly see just to the edge of the next sand dune, but I can hear the rumble of the ocean and feel the rush of salty air. Everyone stumbles about setting up their tent, but I o­nly lay out a mat and my sleeping bag. No reason to close myself off from the stars.

     

As dawn breaks, I sit up and look around. Hiroshi is already up, walking along the surf line in the distance. I catch up to him. He's completely absorbed, and doesn't notice me approach. The beach is empty for as far as we can see except for thousands of sand dollars - whole white disks and crushed pieces like a path along the high tide line. I've never seen anything like it, and obviously, neither has Hiroshi. He excitedly holds o­ne up to me and asks, "What is name?" "Sand dollar," I reply. "Ahhhhh..." he says, letting the new vocabulary sink in. Then another huge smile and he puts o­ne in his pocket, and we keep walking.

Beyond the Boojum


     We decide to cross Baja. That's an important distinction. We are deciding, as a group, not Kyle or Steve or some corporate itinerary planner in Los Angeles. AdventureBus is the anti-tour. Kyle's like the cooler older cousin you had when you were young. He lets you hang out with him sometimes. Doesn't make a big deal of it, just shows you some cool things, and lets you figure it out for yourself. Granted, Kyle tends to hang out in Baja, Nepal, Thailand, and Moab. While cooking up pancakes, he says we can stay here o­n the beach, chill, or get o­n the road again and cross the Sierra de San Pedro Martir mountains to reach the Sea of Cortez. Though the prospect of beach poker with sand dollars is appealing, we load up the AdventureBus.

     I really feel we've left the border behind. All around us are low hills in blue haze beneath a blue sky. Tiny villages zip by our windows, just a glimpse of stunted fan palms, herds of goats along the scrubby roadside, and packs of honey-golden feral dogs - all gaunt haunches and primal society. Steve continues combing his hair and practicing his standup routine while sitting shotgun. I'm in love with Michelle's CD collection, and keep voting to put her music in. Everyone kids Larry and Lindsey (also known as L-Squared) for being too cute of a couple. Rambling wisecracks and silences alternate as we find the personal and group rhythm that matches the gentle swaying of the van along the road.

     

I did not automatically fall in love with the desert when I moved to California. It took time to appreciate the subtle colors of day, and patience to wait for the pastels of sunset. The desiccated brown peaks of Baja are actually golden and rust, alive with rows of yucca along the ridges, some hanging heavy with white flowers in bloom, others just dry husks. The world's tallest cacti, the cardon, tower 40 feet over the highway while branching their arms skyward like Shiva marionettes. A type of agave called the century plant dots hillsides with its distinctive spiked base and single tall flowering stalk. Teddy-bear cholla, elephant trees, Mexican fan palms, and a dozen more plants I've o­nly seen in landscaped L.A. yards cover the mountainous spine of Baja. Found nowhere else in the world, the cerio cacti look like forests of 20-foot carrots turned upside down. They are so strange that early explorers nicknamed them "boojum", after the fictional beast in Lewis Carroll's poem, "The Hunting of the Snark." I dig boojum. I could imagine planting o­ne in my front yard, freaking the entire neighborhood out.

     

We've just turned left. This is significant. There are so few roads in Baja that this means we're o­n our way the Sea of Cortez and Bahia de Los Angeles. The road is getting worse. Jonathan Richman o­n the stereo is getting better. The sea is getting closer.

Politics and Turtles


     Bahia de Los Angeles opens in a sweeping arc backed by the Sierra la Asamblea. The bay contains a handful of islands scattered in the calm sea, and the small, ramshackle town fringes the shoreline. We drive to a beach camp, Archelon, run by Antonio Resendez o­n the outskirts at the north end of the bay. Besides renting a few stone-walled and grass-thatched palapa huts, Antonio runs the Centro Regional de Investigacion Pesquera (CRIP) Sea Turtle Research Station in Bahia de Los Angeles. Tomorrow, Antonio will introduce us to his turtles, but the sun is setting, and I want to get to the beach. I take about 10 steps, and I'm there.

     Michelle, Hiroshi, and I begin walking along the sandy flats. Exposed tidepools are full of anemone and tiny crabs. An older Mexican woman is combing over an exposed sandbar, plastic bag in hand, digging her toes in the sand and occasionally bending over to pull out a clam. We go over, and Michelle translates our offer to help. The old woman explains how to look for them, but laments that there aren't many. Used to be they could feast o­n clams, she says a bit sadly, but she laughs at me when I excitedly drop to my knees and dig up what I think is the mother of all clams. It is, of course, a baseball-sized rock.

     

The mountains ringing the bay are warm red in the sunset, and reflected in the mirrored surface of the bay. o­n the walk back, I pass a sign at the edge of the empty beach. Someone has spray painted a dollar symbol over the notice that this is designated a park area.

     After dinner, our group goes to steal some fire. Camping just down the beach from us are students from the University of Arizona o­n a field research trip. We shyly interrupt their heated discussions of corals and carbonates and nutrient recycling patterns in the Sea of Cortez, and they expand their circle around the fire. Antonio Resendez arrives. He's in his mid-forties, and has the strong shoulders and hands of a man who's worked o­n the sea for a lifetime. He's also about as hyper as a twelve-year old hopped up o­n sugar, and he's here to deliver his message.

     

"The future of Baja is in low impact ecotourism. The central government still doesn't understand that we need eco-scientists, eco-students, kayakers, hikers, more!" he says.

     He's preaching to the choir here. Antonio explains that part of the town has formed a collective called an ejido, 87 families strong, which is focused o­n sustainable tourism as an industry. There are tough decisions though, sometimes conflicting with "our American environmentalist friends." Bighorn ram hunting is o­ne of them. The ejido is actively encouraging tourists to shoot an endangered species that had been poached to near extinction just a few years ago. The catch, of course, is regulated management, and the price of a permit. "$200,000 dollars can provide a lot of scholarships, jobs, enforcement to stop poachers. All for o­ne permit," says Antonio. A lot of us cringed when he brought up hunting, but now we nod slowly in the flicker of the fire.

     

Antonio begins railing against the government's Escalera Nautica project, a series of 24 ports along the Baja coastline, and connecting roads bridging the peninsula. Government officials claim that tens of thousands of pleasure boats, mostly from the United States, will flock to the convenient marinas (and requisite golf courses, hotels, restaurants.) Antonio thinks it's crazy. "Too much infrastructure, and the environment will be sacrificed. And where will the money generated really go? Here? No, Mexico City."

     Tonight, several more people sleep outside with me. We're a row of cocoons, whispering and laughing as we drift to sleep.

     

In the morning, Hiroshi, Claire, Michelle, L-Squared and I take a panga, a small boat with outboard motor, to the islands. At the helm is a local fisherman who helps Antonio with the turtle research station. We slowly cruise by the turtle lines that are set to safely capture turtles for tagging, study and release. Unfortunately for us (and fortunately for the turtles) there are no turtles to save.

     Back at the turtle research station we are energized to clean some turtles. Step right o­n into some turtle bath water, scrub behind their plastic tag markers, polish those shells to a high gleam, do our part for the environment. Unfortunately, the three large open-air holding tanks the station uses are already spotless, as are the turtles swimming around. An older couple driving through Baja in their RV beat us to it this morning. "Next time," Antonio encourages us, and begins to explain the purpose of the center.

     

Not much is really known about the black sea turtle (also known as the east Pacific green turtle): migration patterns, the extent of its nesting range, diet. They are, however, believed to be a crucial component of the ecosystem in the Sea of Cortez, and the number of "negras", as Antonio calls them, is declining.

     The station has about 10 to 15 turtles at any given time (including loggerheads and hawksbills), some of which stay for many years to be studied in a controlled situation. Others are released and tracked. Adelita and Rosita were tracked swimming all the way to Japanese waters to breed, an important scientific discovery. Sometimes people steal turtles from the station to sell o­n the black market for expensive traditional dishes, fetching up to 400 pesos per pound.

     

"I know people kill turtles," Antonio says. "I need to provide jobs to keep them busy instead."

My 25-foot Puppy


     Across Baja, again. We drive to San Ignacio, a sleepy little town o­n the Pacific side full of date palms and anchored by a gorgeous colonial mission in the town square. Around the campfire at Campo Padrino, people are telling stories, laughing, and getting philosophical. Kyle sits back and lets everyone go. He's not here to organize anyone, despite the label of tour leader. Seems his style is to offer exposure, not direction. The Adventure Bus is just a vehicle; discovery is up to the traveler.

     In the morning, I'll leave the AdventureBus crew to return to California. A tight deadline calls. They will head to Mulege and the Bay of Concepcion, criss-crossing the peninsula again. They'll see petroglyphs from pre-Spanish cultures, and kayak with sea lions. And they'll follow me, eventually, to see the whales.

     

I arrange a ride with Henoc in the morning, but have to scramble around the campground to find someone else to join me. It's not worth Henoc's time unless there's two of us. Even then, he's charging $100 per person. I balk. Just north in Guerrero Negro you can get a boat for $35. The AdventureBus crew usually pays about $50 each. Henoc just smiles. Taking tourists to see the whales is not an altruistic ecological service for him. It's a job. Of course, that's the whole point, isn't it? I'm here to see something special, and support the local economy with minimal disruption. Time to override my ingrained bargaining habits.

     I ask Jean, whose RV is parked in the campground, to join me, and she agrees to come along. We ride in Henoc's van for a long time over smashed stone roads and across an alluvial plain that flattens into a point that defines the mouth of San Ignacio Bay.

     

I ask Henoc about the desalination plant that Mitsubishi had proposed to build here. A huge international uproar over the environmental effects of such a plant eventually caused the Mexican government and Mitsubishi to cancel the project, but the scientific validity of the environmental concerns was called into question.

     "Es bueno, es malo. Both good and bad," Henoc says over the roar of crunching gravel. Whale watching employs about 200 people in the local area. The plant could have employed 1,000. "But now, we still have the whales," he says.

     

A massive, sun-bleached whale skeleton welcomes us to Antonio's EcoTours, perched near the end of the bay. Henoc drops us off and will wait for our return. It's surprisingly windy and cool even at 10:30 a.m. Another couple meets us at the dock, Daniel from the tour company revs the outboard and we cut into the chop.

     The panga isn't more than 15 feet long and seems small in the huge bay. It seems even smaller when a huge gray whale breaches a hundred feet off starboard. Whales are spouting all around us. We're constantly spinning around at the sound of spray from blowholes just in time to see another whale sink below the surface. Daniel says there are probably 250 whales in the lagoon right now, at the height of the breeding season. For a few months at the beginning of every year, the world's population of gray whales descends upon a few bays in Baja Sur to give birth. It is a powerful event to witness.

     

Slowly drifting inward from the mouth of the lagoon, we follow the whales as they open their mouths and let the outgoing tide force food into their gullets. Mother and calf pairs swim all around us. Finally, o­ne pair approaches our boat.

     It's so easy to anthropomorphize the mother and calf. The mother floats off to the side, overseeing us while her calf spy-hops by our gunwale. He's playing like a little kid, or a puppy. A 25-foot-long puppy. He rolls along the side of our boat, and sticks his nose in the air to be petted. I oblige, leaning over and running my hand o­n his rubbery, barnacled skin. He's gorgeous. Eventually, he slides into the green depths and disappears with his mother.

     

I catch a Mexican bus for the ride home. It's nice, but quiet, and I miss the camaraderie of the AdventureBus crew. I think about how Baja California presents a chance for people in the U.S. especially to see an ecological marvel nearby, relatively untouched. Some ecologists say that Baja is the Galapagos II. AdventureBus isn't Darwin's Beagle, but maybe there's some of the same tradition of natural exploration. Strangely, o­n this bus there are television sets playing the movie Notting Hill. While Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant flirt in English overhead, outside the bus windows the boojum pass by and the sun sets over Baja.

LOW DOWN o­n ECOTOURISM

Baja: