If you haven’t read them yet, go back and visit Part 5, Part 4, Part 3, Part 2 and Part 1 of this series about La Paz, Mexico.
There is a myth call[ed] the Night Sea Journey, the most popular being Jonah and the whale. The hero is swallowed, and taken to the bottom of the sea. He frees himself by lighting a fire, and emerges transformed by the experience.
Ann McCoy
Back in my room with my friend, the roaring air conditioner, I closed the window curtains and opened up my recently reborn laptop. The carton of tacos sat on the end of the table, on top of my stack of books. I replied to a few more people who had commented on my photos and updates.
In the back of my mind was the question of whether I really had the “stuff” to make it three more days and nights after this one, before the morning of my departure dawned. True, I was feeling better. But there were still elements I felt vulnerable in the face of. Besides the triumvirate of the heat, the transportation and the lack of even a rudimentary food store around, there was now the fact that I’d hardly slept the past two nights … maybe a couple of hours just before dawn on Wednesday, and not at all Thursday.
I’d underestimated the impediments, that morning when Barbara had shown me the real La Paz temperatures on her phone. Enthusiasm, commitment and the intention to enjoy my vacation: Were those enough? I’d chosen, and now I was here. However, having felt “out of the woods” after the uplifting experiences of the hotel, art museum and city, the day in “sick bay” had left me wondering again.
As I read online, I pulled the to-go carton over to me and opened it. The tacos, with their topping of sour cream, looked substantial. Together, they filled the box. The ingredients looked fresh. I picked one up, bit off a big bite and chewed. Swallowing, I took a swig of water. Then I went back to my screen work. In a few such rounds, I disposed of one taco, and within another half-hour, the other.
“Reporting” to Baba
I decided to put in a little more time on the “retreat” part of my stay. I arranged one of the three pillows from the big bed on the floor and taped my favorite photo of Meher Baba, taken in England in 1931, onto the front of the wooden dresser cabinet inside of which I’d piled my clothes. I’d also brought four electric tea candles in one of my two little bathroom bags. I pulled my suitcase over, piled some books on it, set the candles down on top of the books and turned their little switches on to illuminate the picture.
I began to say my prayers: “Oh, Parvardigar, the preserver and protector of all, You are without beginning and without end.” I went all the way through the Master’s Prayer, the Prayer of Repentance and the “Beloved God” prayer, and recited the English translation of the poem Baba had written in the 1920s that devotees often sing as an arti in the Indian language, Gujerati.
Finishing my devotions, I prepared to “report to Baba” on how things were going. This was a practice I’d learned of from a close Western devotee named Don Stevens, who’d had a job as an executive with Standard Oil and then Chevron. Don had realized at some point in his career that since Meher Baba was always spiritually present, he could “report to Baba” on his life and its situations, the way he often did in the physical presence of bosses at work.
I loved this idea, and felt it had a sound basis. The photo of the Master was like a portal to his Divine Presence. Since learning of Don’s practice, I’d frequently tell Baba what was happening in my life, what was challenging, and ask for Guidance and help.
“Baba,” I said. “I did not, as I’ve told You, reckon on the heat here, but still, on consideration after I discovered I’d been monitoring the temperature of the wrong La Paz, I decided that I should still come. I felt You were with me on that when I reported to You about that decision that day.”
“So now I’m here, and it’s a little more of a challenge than I had thought it would be. Please Guide me and Help me to be creative in my responses to the factors that have created the difficulties … my health, my lack of sleep, the intense heat and humidity, far beyond what I’d imagined, the distance to the downtown area, the lack of any real food stores in this part of the city. Please GUIDE me, Baba. I lay all of this at Your Feet.”
After that, I looked into Baba’s Eyes and said His Name and some favourite affirmations aloud for a while. While doing this, however, I began to feel some new tremors in my stomach. Not as bad as the previous night, but noticeable.
A repeat of the previous night
Two hours later, I was still dealing with this new bout of indigestion. I had gone back to the repetitious rituals of the previous night’s routines: bathroom, gulps of water and electrolytes, phone scrolling, tossing and turning, calling my wife.
Around midnight, the AC’s roar came to feel so intense that even uttering audible prayers, or while thinking my own thoughts with all that noise, I could scarcely hear my voice or feel my presence in the room. I abruptly turned the air conditioner off. At that time in the morning, with the air already cool and the temperature outside going down, the room wouldn’t heat up again for many hours.
The silence was immediately pleasurable! I could feel my presence again. I could think. Utilizing that capacity for thought, I began realizing there were indeed just too many things askew. So many that I couldn’t imagine staying for three more whole days.
In some ways, though, the room itself seemed to be morphing now. Not visually, necessarily. I was in bed again, with the lights out. The things I could see physically were just shadowy intimations of their nature and mass.
Buying back life for $603
Inwardly, it seemed all time and space had lost its sense of being a continuum. All the walls of the room, along with the floor and ceiling, were coming to feel like a single membrane. I imagined it as a white membrane. A sickly white membrane that had absorbed me, consumed me. And now I was within it! And it was omnipotent. It alone existed. It was my world—this one, off-white, gooey, formless blob that had ingested me.
I’d gotten completely absorbed into it. I no longer had my own life. I had no free will. In three days—after three days of this—I’d be like a person in a padded cell. This white membrane was a kind of padded cell already, mentally if not physically. I’d become completely ineffectual. All I could do was wait those three days and feel myself be reduced each day in stature, in stability, in any capacity to act.
I made an enormous effort to reach into the very limit of myself—beyond this white free-form or formless imprisonment in a one-dimensional prison. What could I do if I assumed I was strong enough to break out of this cocoon?
The only thing I could do was to change my flight. To leave a day or two sooner!
But how could I do it? I was feeling so withdrawn. Was I even capable of phoning United Airlines, getting through the electronic voice that answered, and then pushing the right button when it recited the interminable options menu? Of ever getting a real person, and speaking up to that person, expressing my need and persisting until I got it met?
I went to the laptop and pulled up the United Airlines website, to see what my options were. I signed into it and found my flight. My ticket was Basic Economy. I searched to discover whether I could change my flight. The verdict appeared: Basic Economy tickets can’t change their flight.
There was nothing. Nothing I could do. I was becoming—and would remain—a victim! To leave sooner, I would have to buy a new ticket. Would I do that?
I heard the voice of my father, or someone, saying, “Don’t waste your money!”
But this had become a matter of survival. “Surviving isn’t wasting money!” I said back.
I still doubted whether someone in as weakened a condition as I was could take on the airline over the phone. But I still had my laptop open. I could search for a flight a day or two before the one I was scheduled for, and if there were any openings, buy a new one online! I wouldn’t have to rely on my shaky voice or the robot phone concierge.
How much would it cost to buy a new ticket, a day or two before the flight? I searched. At first, the sums appeared outlandish: the first one that appeared was $1600, one way. Then—scrolling down past all of the morning flights—why would they be more costly?—I found one! At 5 p.m. there was a nonstop flight from Cabo del Jose airport to San Francisco for $565! It was possible. I didn’t even have to use my shaky phone voice.
Barbara was asleep. I couldn’t ask her. I couldn’t wait until she was up. This opportunity might be gone any minute! I had to do this now!
Inside me, a sudden realization dawned. Barbara would approve—she understood! She’d understand that it was a matter of survival. And there was no doubt that survival, to live on actively and continue to grow toward my full potential, was infinitely more important than money!
I clicked the mouse to buy the ticket. It was done!
Of course, the airline continued to offer add-ons. Did I want insurance? Not that I wanted it, but insurance, as they put it, “against losing the flight?” I needed that!
There was more. Pick your seat. Economy, this time, not Basic Economy, where you really couldn’t pick. This part was just the luck of the draw. I clicked on a few of the seats still available. No, not “Extra Leg Room, $116.” I found a window seat near the very back of the plane. Then I checked my bag. I was allowed a free bag check this time. For my other ticket, I’d had to pay $35.
The total was $603, to get out of the hell that my time here had become. Yes! I had bought back my life for a mere $603.
One more step to sanity
Then I remembered: I still wasn’t finished! To leave Mexico at 5 p.m. on Sunday, less than 48 hours away, I had to change my shuttle ride to the Cabo airport, too! If I couldn’t do that, I’d have thrown away that $603. I pulled up my emails from the shuttle company and fired one off. They would see it in the morning. They’d surely be open on a Saturday.
It was only around 6 a.m. There was nothing more I could do. But I realized there was something I could do—and must do—after breakfast. And that was to go downtown to the shuttle office and arrange my change of ride in person!
to have been an alias or partner of Eco Baja Tours.
I’d passed that office on my walk up Calle Independencia the morning before. I’d seen the name of the company. Or one of the names. That was why I’d noticed it. This shuttle company seemed to have three or four different names. Online I’d paid and registered with Cheap Cabo Shuttle! But as my trip approached, I’d begun to receive emails about it from a company called SJD Taxi (a taxi company named for the San Jose Del Cabo airport)! The shuttle I’d actually taken from the Cabo airport here to La Paz on Wednesday had still another company name, Eco Baja Tours!
I remembered passing an office downtown with that very name on its sign. It was near the main Turista bus station. Yes! I would go there at 9 a.m.
Everything was arranged. I’d acted. I’d taken the action I’d had to take. The only one there was for me to take! And later, I would take its necessary corollary action, and everything would work out.
Suddenly I realized that everything had become clear and simple again. Any idea of my hotel room morphing into some kind of white membrane that had swallowed all dimensions of time and space and my individuality and power and future—my taking action had poked a hole through all of that! It had popped like a bubble, but without the noise. It was simply gone.
What was left was my hotel room, with its lovely Mexican folk-décor. My photos of Meher Baba. My books and laptop. My clothes and bag on the hooks on the wall. My pictures of Barbara.
My sanity. More than that: my actual peace of mind. I looked forward to getting my business done downtown after breakfast, and to thoroughly enjoying my last full day in La Paz.
Breakfast and a cooling Uber ride
At 8 a.m. I presented myself for breakfast. My indigestion had vanished and I was ready to eat a sumptuous meal. I’d deposited my backpack bag, my hat, and my walking stick at my table of choice. I was the first one there today. There was a different cook behind the counter.
“Huevos rancheros, please,” I said.
“Today I make you chilaquiles!” she replied.
“What is chilaquiles?” I asked.
“Tortilla chips with huevos, quesa, salsa.”
“Can’t wait,” I said.
I went to the counter, gathered yogurt, coffee and toast, and brought them to the table just as she arrived with the main course, orange juice and the fruit whose sight and taste I so enjoyed. It all looked delicious.
“Muy linda,” I said, happy to see her smile. The taste of the chilaquiles did not contradict its appearance.
advertises his other business, a wilderness outfitting company whose office is on the hotel premises.
While I was eating, a thin, grey-haired man about my age brought some coffee and toast to the table behind me. Because of the angle of my chair, I could see him clearly. I remembered hearing him speak Spanish the other morning, but I thought I’d also heard him use English.
“Good morning!” I called over to him. “Are you from the U.S.?”
“Yes,” he said. “San Diego. You?”
“I’m from San Francisco. Across the bay, really, and inland. Walnut Creek.”
“Yes. I’ve been there. Do you come here every year?” he asked.
“No, this is my first time. I’m still a little blown away by the heat. I’d been mistakenly monitoring the weather of a much cooler La Paz, near Mexico City. My wife discovered my error the morning before my flight. I decided I still wanted to come, but It’s been hard. I’m actually leaving a day or two early because I can’t get around well enough in the heat.”
“You should use Uber,” he said without missing a beat.
“I tried that once at home. Couldn’t get the app to work.”
“Try again,” he said. “It’s easy. It’s a must here. They get you downtown for around 44 pesos.”
“Wow, the taxi I took the other day charged me 70.”
“Yeah, and the Ubers all have AC.”
It dawned on me—this is the missing link in my logistical portfolio! I thanked the man profusely and then finished breakfast, savouring every bit. Before even getting up, I downloaded the Uber app on my phone. When I clicked it, a screen came up asking where I wanted to go. Turista autobus estacion el centro, I wrote in. I remembered that the Eco Baja Tours office was very close to the station.
“Where are you?” the app asked. “Hotel Posada LunaSol,” I typed.
A notation appeared on the screen: Just a minute.
Soon another screen came up with the name of a driver who was in the vicinity and was already starting to come my way. The screen proposed a meeting point just beyond the hotel compound and asked if this driver and plan had my approval. I clicked “OK.”
The screen I saw next showed me exactly where the driver was. A little black line of small dashes was advancing, one dash at a time. He was already getting close. I grabbed my backpack by its drawstring, put on my hat and picked up my walking stick. By the time I got out to the street, I saw a silver compact Honda slowing down as it approached me.
I enjoyed a perfect air-conditioned ride to the station. The only complication occurred when I tried to pay. The driver made obstructive signs with both hands as I started getting out pesos. OK, I thought, and pulled out my Visa card instead. Again, he intercepted my attempt with his negative hand gestures and head-shaking! What had I done wrong? Was I in trouble? Was he going to call the police?
As he tried to explain in rapid-fire Google Spanish, he also pushed a button on a box on his dashboard. A small piece of paper came out. He handed it to me, and I started to get out my pen.
“No, No!” he said. Finally, it all computed. This was only a receipt. I’d already paid! My registration with Uber had apparently included allowing them to use my debit card.
Now the driver and I both wore wide smiles. I thanked him, grabbed my things and got out.
GO TO PART SEVEN: TYING UP LOOSE ENDS: One last—and glorious—day in La Paz, Mexico
image 2: Wikimedia Commons; image 3: Wikimedia Commons; all other images: Max Reif
