Baja Honeymoon

by Roland Graeme

  “Observing them.”

  “Where? At Hollywood parties and fancy red-carpet events?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “As though the men you’re likely to run into there are typical.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  “It might surprise you to know that we do come in all shapes and sizes and personality types.”

  “Man. I never thought the first few nights of my honeymoon would be like this. Shacking up with a guy and debating the fine points of gayness and bisexuality.”

  “Yeah, I bet this is everything you dreamed about and more.”

  “Tell me about it. Anyhow, are you comfortable?”

  “More or less. If anything, I’m almost too warm.”

  “You’d better get out of those sweats before you get overheated. I know I was last night, with all those clothes on.”

  Ken peeled off his sweatshirt and flung it aside, letting it land somewhere within the dark interior of the tent. Then he pushed his sweatpants down to his ankles and slipped his feet out of them, leaving the discarded garment wadded up in the bottom of the sleeping bag.

  He couldn’t believe he was lying there naked next to Rick’s own nearly nude body. Being there with Rick inside the sleeping bag wasn’t just warm and comfortable. It was heaven.

  “Now are you comfortable?” Rick asked.

  “I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

  “Then shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”

  “All right. Some romantic type you are.”

  “Try me again on some night when it’s warm and I’m not so tired I can barely keep my eyes open,” Rick said. He already sounded drowsy.

  “I will. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SOUTHWARD BOUND

  KEN WOKE up alone in Rick’s sleeping bag. Once again, the unsettled weather of the day and night before seemed to have yielded to calm. Emerging from the tent, he saw that Rick was busying himself with tidying up the truck and consolidating their food supplies in their storage containers.

  “You’ve had a lot of experience at this, I see,” Ken remarked.

  “At what?”

  “Camping out, in general. You’re extremely well organized.”

  “I’ve always loved being outdoors. And trust me, I’ve had to handle camping conditions that were a lot more primitive than this. Breakfast will be ready in a minute.” Rick eyed Ken’s nude body and smiled enigmatically. “Just in case you’re planning to get dressed.”

  Reluctantly, Ken did get dressed, and soon, fortified by breakfast, the two travelers hit the road. Their route carried them steadily southward, despite the occasional brief detour.

  The next town they had marked on the map as a possible stop was Loreto, which had the distinction of being the oldest settlement in Baja. It dated as far back as 1697, which was when Jesuit missionaries chose the area to establish their first mission in California. In modern times, Loreto remained an important link between Ensenada and La Paz. Back in the late 1970s, Mexico’s official tourist development agency had ambitious plans for developing the area into another mega-resort that could rival Cabo San Lucas. The development never really took off as planned, and three decades later Loreto retained its pleasant, small-town atmosphere.

  They drove into the sleepy town and did a quick tour, getting out of the truck only long enough to walk around the main plaza and look at the old buildings. Only a handful of people were on the streets, and these seemed to be local residents going about their business.

  “Picturesque,” Rick proclaimed. “And boring. Let’s move on.”

  On the way out of town they stopped long enough to fill up with gas at a Pemex station.

  Their plan for the afternoon was to take a side trip into the interior and visit the small town of San Javier, which was nestled in the high desert country of central Baja. According to the guidebooks, the town’s main attraction was one of the most beautifully preserved old mission churches in Baja.

  The dirt road leading to San Javier wound around the barren hills and through washed-out gullies as it made its leisurely way up a steep mountain canyon. The road was rough enough to give a driver a few moments of anxiety. In several places there were deep ruts, and Ken, who was behind the wheel, was grateful for the pickup’s high ground clearance and rugged suspension system.

  While crossing a deep arroyo with a small stream flowing down its center, they noticed a sign indicating there was some rock art nearby. They turned up the arroyo to follow the sign and soon found themselves in a small dirt parking area next to a tall cliff face. They got out and walked over to the base of the cliff. There was a split-rail fence a few feet away from the base, cordoning off the area. On the rock’s surface they could see several faint outlines of stick figures and other designs, some geometric, others vaguely suggestive of animals. The artwork wasn’t spectacular or elaborate, but it was interesting enough to justify the stop.

  “Photo op,” Ken declared, getting out the camera. “You pose in front of the fence and try to look like an intellectual. Pretend you’re playing the role of a young anthropologist. I’ll get as much of the drawings into the frame along with you as I can.”

  “Listen, buddy. The whole idea of this trip was to give me a chance to get away from cameras—and directors.”

  “Oh, come on, be a sport. We have to document this expedition of ours.”

  “Okay, take your pictures of me, and then I’ll do you.”

  “I can only dream.”

  After the photo session, they got back in the pickup and continued on their way.

  It took several hours to wind their way up the canyon. Along the way they passed some lonely ranches and a tiny one-room house about the size of a one-car garage. This forlorn-looking property did at least have an extensive and eye-catching flower and vegetable garden adjoining it.

  “Imagine living way out here in the middle of nowhere, all the time,” Rick commented.

  “Imagine living here and being gay. I’d go out of my mind. I wonder how a gay guy here would ever get laid? Even with the Internet, he’d have to do some driving to hook up with anybody he met online. Maybe there’s a gay bar in San Javier.”

  “If there is, I’ll buy you a drink there,” Rick promised.

  “Thanks, buddy. If only more straight guys were as accommodating as you.”

  Once they were on top of the plateau, the road leveled out and they were able to travel much faster. Soon they could see San Javier in the distance.

  The mission church was the first thing to catch the eye. Against the dark cliffs that loomed up behind it, the chapel’s light-gray stone façade shimmered in the sunlight. The town was quite small, with a population of only a couple hundred people. The narrow streets on its perimeter were lined with small cottages, and at one point Ken had to wait for a sleeping dog to rouse itself and get out of the road before the pickup could pass.

  As they got closer to the church, they saw how the dusty road opened up onto a broad cobblestone avenue lined with palms and citrus trees. The mission stood at the far end of the town’s plaza and was obviously the focal point. In front of the chapel, large planters overflowed with flowering purple bushes and bright-yellow sunflowers.

  Built in 1744, the mission stood tall and stately, with an imposing bell tower jutting into the cloudless blue sky. The walls were constructed of hand-hewn stone blocks, and the exterior had ornately carved but weathered stone trim around the windows and front door. The remnants of other mission outbuildings and a small cemetery spread out behind the chapel.

  They parked near the front entrance of the church and got out to take a look around. There was no one around, so they decided there could be no objection if they gave themselves a tour. The mission’s heavy oak doors were partially open, so they peeked inside. High ceilings and whitewashed walls made the sanctuary appear much larger than it actually was. Rough, hand-carved pews were lined up in neat rows, and a long central ai
sle led to the altar. Their footsteps echoed off the stone tile floor as they walked down the aisle toward the front of the chapel. Hanging on the wall behind the altar were several age-darkened oil paintings of the saints. These paintings were set into intricately carved wooden frames gilded with flaked and scarred gold leaf. The artwork dated back to the mission days and was impressive enough in its somber way. Not wanting to intrude or overstay their welcome in the sanctuary, they took some photos and then exited.

  The mission’s grounds were not as well maintained as the chapel, but several old buildings were still standing. They wandered around the grounds and investigated the cemetery. Many of the grave markers were so worn from age and exposure to the elements that they couldn’t read the lettering.

  They took some more pictures of the grounds and then strolled out into the plaza. The area was virtually deserted, with only a few old women conversing in the shade on a nearby patio. A pair of emerald-green iguanas sat on the wall sunning themselves, and Ken tried to catch one, but the critters were much too fast for him. The midday sun grew hot, and they looked around for somewhere where they might find something cold to drink.

  They finally decided to take a chance on a small café located on one of the narrow side streets near the plaza. Unpretentious on both the outside and the inside, the establishment had a surprisingly diverse and sophisticated menu. The two men drank lemon daiquiris scented with basil leaves and, feeling adventurous, snacked on pizza topped with huitlacoche, Mexico’s signature corn fungus.

  “I don’t pretend to know much about such things,” Rick said. “But I’d be willing to bet that if San Javier does have a gay bar, this sure as hell isn’t it.”

  “You’re telling me. But at least it’s some sign of life, so I suppose we shouldn’t be ungrateful.” Ken took another bite of pizza. “This is good.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  “Looking around inside the church reminded me of something.”

  “Yeah? What was that?”

  “You never told me exactly what kind of a wedding you and Eva had planned. Of course, it’s none of my business, and maybe you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. A big church wedding with full, garish media coverage, naturally. Now that I can look back on it, I’m relieved the big event never happened. I can see now that it would’ve been just another performance, something staged for the media. When two people are serious about getting married, they don’t need all that ostentatious display. They’d be better off running away to some out-of-the-way place just like this and getting hitched in a little church like the one here, without any crowds of people around and without any fuss.”

  Ken was rather sorry when it was time for them to drive out of the town. He had enjoyed the stop. He concluded that San Javier’s remote location certainly seemed to limit the number of its visitors, but those who did make the effort would find the experience very rewarding.

  They found that night’s camping spot at Playa Juncalito, a beach situated in a large cove with several small fishing camps on one side and an empty stretch of beach on the other. The part of the beach where they camped jutted out into the bay and was quite secluded. Compared with their magnificent campsite of the night before, Playa Juncalito was not quite as appealing from a scenic standpoint, but it was much farther from the highway and more isolated. They chose a spot near the water to pull in and set up camp. The bay was tranquil and quiet, and they relaxed in their camp chairs, admiring the view.

  As the sun dipped toward the horizon, they watched several small fishing boats return with their day’s catch and beach themselves near the fishing camps. The fishermen hauled large coolers up the beach and shouted greetings to each other. They gathered around in small groups, talking, comparing one another’s catch, and joking around.

  “I wonder if those guys would be willing to sell us a couple of their fish,” Ken said.

  “I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t. Let’s go over and talk to them. It’ll give you a chance to exercise your linguistic skills and your charm.”

  The fishermen were friendly, to the extent that they were not only willing to sell the Americans two large fish for a few pesos, but insisted on cleaning them for the purchasers. As a result, Ken and Rick’s dinner consisted of fresh fish fillets, fried over briquettes and with some lime juice squeezed over them just prior to serving. The two men devoured every morsel.

  Then, by the light of their camping lamp, Rick and Ken reviewed their road map and guidebook.

  They were now over two-thirds of the way down the peninsula, and Ken found himself wishing that they could travel in slow motion and take even more time to explore and enjoy the byways of Baja. Time was flying along—he couldn’t believe that they had been traveling for almost a week.

  As the stars began to appear on the horizon one by one, they abandoned their chairs and retired into the tent.

  “Forget that,” Rick said as Ken pulled back the flap of his sleeping bag.

  “Huh?”

  “You might as well crawl in here with me. I don’t mind.”

  Taken by surprise though he was, Ken didn’t have to be invited twice. “Okay.”

  “It’s kind of silly for us to start acting all standoffish with each other.” Rick’s tone of voice was casual.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Ken agreed very quickly indeed.

  “After all, we’re both guys. We’ve both got the same thing between our legs.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “Yes, you have. I’ve seen you looking at me, checking me out.” Before Ken could protest the innocence of his intentions or come up with a suitably glib retort, Rick surprised him by giving him a quick good-night peck on the check. “Now go to sleep, asshole,” Rick said, gruffly.

  “Okay. I will. And I apologize in advance.”

  “For what?”

  “In case I poke you with my hard-on sometime during the night. While we’re both asleep.”

  Rick laughed. “Shut the fuck up.”

  They lay in the bag together, watching the moon rise over the water. The palms swayed gently in the breeze and all was quiet. Ken experienced that rare sensation, utter contentment. It was a perfect ending to a perfect day.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HOT WATER

  THEIR PLAN for the next day was to remain on the highway for an hour or so until they reached a town called Santiago. There they could turn onto a side road that led to the next definite destination they’d marked on the map. Agua Caliente was supposedly a small ranching community located at the base of the Sierra de La Laguna mountain range. The name Agua Caliente, of course, translated as “hot water,” and it was inspired by a hot spring that was located outside the town.

  The dirt road that turned off the highway leading toward Agua Caliente was a relief. It was smooth and well maintained, with no hint of the dreaded jolting effect on the pickup’s suspension. Rick solemnly reviewed the directions in his guidebook.

  “These directions are definitely on the vague side,” he complained. “Not unlike some of the directions I’ve been given on a set, in fact.”

  “So we improvise. Anyway, we do seem to be heading in the right general direction. I see buildings up ahead. That must be Agua Caliente.”

  It was. But once they reached the village, which turned out to be small and picturesque, with a one-room schoolhouse, a tiny church, and several whitewashed houses clustered around a central plaza, it became obvious that it might not be so easy to find the actual hot spring. There were several dirt roads heading off in different directions, and none of them was marked by any kind of a road sign. Ken exercised his Spanish by asking for guidance from the first pedestrian they met.

  Driving on, they soon passed a ranch with a large one-story main house and several outbuildings and horse corrals. A weather-beaten sign was secured to the fence that separated the road from the ranch property. On the sign was painted a hand with a pointing finger, along with the w
ords Agua Caliente.

  “We seem to be on the right track,” Rick said.

  The road soon came to a dead end in the mouth of a narrow canyon that was blocked by a concrete flood-control dam. They saw a rancher walking across the dam toward them, and hoped that he might direct them to the hot spring. The rancher was an older man, lean and spry, who seemed to welcome some company to break the monotony of his day. He and Ken struck up a conversation, and the rancher indicated that he was the owner of the spread they’d just passed, and that the hot spring was in fact not far away, on the other side of the dam.

  The rancher explained that the hot water emerged with some force from a fissure in the canyon wall, mixing with the cooler water of the stream that flowed into it, thus creating an ideal natural swimming hole. The rancher and the men who worked for him bathed in the hot spring all the time. It was relaxing and good for the skin.

  Ken asked him if it would be all right if they camped nearby, and the rancher replied that would not be a problem. They were to make themselves entirely at home, and if they needed anything, they must come to the ranch. With a tip of his cowboy hat, he went on his way, and Ken and Rick got out to explore on foot. Ken climbed up onto the dam, and from that vantage point could see a large pool of emerald-green water farther up the canyon, with a small stream flowing into it. They went back to the truck and drove overland the short distance to the pool.

  “Let’s go in and have a soak,” Ken suggested.

  “I don’t know, Ken. That water looks awfully green.”

  The perimeters of the pool were undeniably upholstered with pads of thick green moss, and the opaque water not only had algae floating on its surface but also smelled distinctly of sulfur.

  “Aw, grow a pair,” Ken taunted Rick. “We should be all right as long as we don’t swallow the stuff.”

  “If you say so. But I’m not going to risk getting my swim trunks all stained by that green crap. I’m going to go in naked.”

  Now it was Rick who was the bold one, Ken noted with amusement. “Me too.”