San Juanico: A Novel of Baja California Sur

Copyright © 2020 Guy Bonnivier.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the publisher, Guy Bonnivier, except for brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-7351771-2-0 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-7351771-1-3 (eBook)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Judith S. Nicolas at Judith S. Designs

Editing by Cortni Merritt at SRD Editing Services

Book design by Brianna Davis at Meraki Design

Maps and Illustrations by Jasna Cizler

Printed by Guy Bonnivier, in the United States of America.

First printing edition 2020.

www.guybonnivier.com

For:

The many dedicated Mexican conservationists I met and worked with in Baja California Sur along the way.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Rancho San Juanico, 1960

Rancho San Juanico, 1965

Santa Marta

Vision Quest

Sea of Cortez

The Cliff Trail

Agua Verde

Timbabichi

Rancho San Juanico

Ejido San Jose del Norio

Territorio de Baja California Sur

September 1960

Juan Pedro Amador Murillo shuffled slowly along the trail under the mid-day sun in the direction of his shanty. For more than a century, the sharp hooves of domesticated animals seeking water from the spring-fed oasis had followed the same path. On top of the hardened soil, between the scattered rocks, were several inches of pulverized dust. Juan Pedro’s nostrils were gray colored from inhaling the fine particles that rose in small clouds with each of his steps. A sweat-stained bandanna hung loosely around his neck, and two weeks of dark stubble shaded his face. His weathered features belied his meager twenty-eight years.

Cactus, mesquite brush, and thickets of impenetrable catclaw blanketed the parched gray-colored landscape as far as the eye could see. To the south, west, and north the horizon was framed by rimrock that crested a thousand feet above the valley floor. To the east lay a broad valley that extended toward the Sea of Cortez, twelve miles away. Dropping down to the sea, there was a thousand-foot vertical wall of craggy rock. Perched on top of the cliff was the high-desert plain Juan Pedro called home. It was the only home he and his extended family had ever known.

As Juan Pedro approached his wretched shanty that day, the sun was directly overhead. The oven-like temperatures of August had given way to the barely-more-temperate days of September. The three village women who greeted him did so from the narrow band of shade that extended from the side wall of the shanty.

Juan Pedro! said the smiling, plump woman who was first to speak. Her teeth were crooked but white, brilliant as new eggshell, contrasting sharply against her dark brown, leathery skin.

She embraced Juan Pedro and whispered, You are a lucky man. You have a son! He is big and healthy with a head of black hair!

Juan Pedro broke from his sleepy posture and half-smiled. He reached forward and held the woman by her shoulders with his toughened hands and pushed her gently back so he could look into her dark brown eyes. With her reassuring nod, tears welled up in his own dark eyes and fell across his face, leaving slick tracks in the dust and stubble. This was his third child, but only the first to survive childbirth.

Thank God! was all he said, and he kissed the woman on the cheek before doing the same to the other two standing by her side. Can I go in and meet my son? he asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer and turned toward the door-less opening.

In the dim shadows of the shanty, his twenty-three year-old wife, Luisa, was lying on the dirt floor on a mattress made of softened burlap and palm fronds. She was modestly covered with a threadbare cotton sheet as she held the newborn infant to her pale, swollen breast. Her sister, Nora, kneeled beside her on the hard-pan dirt floor with a cup of goat’s milk in her hand. She appeared even more serene than Luisa.

Pedro, we have a son! He looks just like you. Here, hold him and give him his name, Luisa said as she offered up the child.

Juan Pedro studied the infant as he rocked it back and forth. He was speechless, until after a long time he turned to Luisa and said, Juan Carlos will be his name! I will tell the village and we will have cabrito tonight! I know the animal. I saw a young buck this morning at the water. I’ll go find him and build the fires myself. You do nothing, my love. Just lie in the bed and nourish our son. I will return soon with the animal for the fiesta! Here, Pedro said as he carefully handed the infant to Nora.

The year was 1960. Juan Carlos Amador Murillo was born into wretched poverty in the tiny village known as Rancho San Juanico, in the high desert plateaus and mountains of south-central Baja California Sur, Mexico. The only reason Rancho San Juanico existed was the single spring of fresh water that trickled out of the ground at a rocky crevice on the valley floor. Ancestral natives had constructed a rock wall surrounding the spring to protect it from trampling by their goats and burros, and during more recent generations, a small number of cattle. The amount of water that percolated to the surface was miniscule, about five gallons an hour, but day after day, week after week, the water seeped out and nourished a tiny wetland oasis and an insignificant sparse patch of chilis and beans. The oasis was dominated by a small grove of date palm trees that could be seen for miles when viewed from the distant rimrock that encircled the valley on three sides. A thirty-foot deep, hand-dug well, lined with rock, sat beside the spring and provided for more immediate needs. A bruised and battered, rusty tin bucket knotted up on a length of frayed old rope tied to a mesquite post laid in the dirt. It was used to draw water up from the well.

A dozen or more caves were scattered along the face of the hills surrounding San Juanico. Ancient Indian art etched and painted on the cave walls portrayed bighorn sheep and deer being pursued by stick men with spears and bows. The caves would’ve been occupied full-time by the local villagers except for their distance to water. When building materials of even the most rudimentary nature became available, the natives found life much easier closer to the water, rather than hauling it in bulky containers made of goat skins or heavy pottery up the side of the mountain. The caves were presently used to store and preserve a small amount of goat cheese, dried meat, and seeds, and as a place to take a siesta in a cool dark place on a sweltering afternoon. Far below the caves and the rimrock, the villagers lived in an odd variety of lean-to shelters, palm frond palapas, shacks and shanties widely spaced over five acres of flat land surrounding the spring. On rare occasions, small planes headed down the peninsula would circle low overhead for a closer inspection of the ramshackle village. The villagers would freeze in place, with eyes fixed on the aircraft in stunned wonderment.

The population of Rancho San Juanico in 1960 was around fifty, mostly related men, women, and children. Cousins commonly married cousins. There were eight families and several solitary widows, widowers, and bachelors. Access to the outside world was limited, and knowledge of the outside world was minimal. Nearly all the men and boys twelve and older had at least seen the Sea of Cortez to the east from the rim of the cliffs. A smaller number of them had actually made the dangerous trek down the rugged trail through the rocks to sea level. In the other direction, a rutted foot trail crossed the desert fifty miles to the west and led to the Magdalena Plain, an irrigated flatland that surrounded the relatively prosperous farming town of Ciudad Insurgentes, a short distance from the Pacific Ocean. It was two days on foot from San Juanico down to the Sea of Cortez, and likewise, two days of steady riding on mules or burros in the opposite direction across the desert to Ciudad Insurgentes.

From Insurgentes, a one lane primitive dirt road went both north and south. To the north the road snaked up and through the raw, rugged Sierra Las Gigantas and reached heights in excess of three-thousand feet above sea level. After a grueling day’s journey by truck through dangerous switchbacks and canyons, the road dropped back to sea level, to the small coastal fishing town of Loreto. Loreto was built on a gently sloping alluvial plain, tucked between the foot of the towering Las Gigantas and the Sea of Cortez. Scattered across the alluvial plain were a few isolated springs that fed a limited amount of agriculture, date palm groves, and most importantly, a pipeline that provided a reliable source of precious fresh water to the citizens of Loreto.

The first capital city of California, Loreto was founded by Jesuit missionaries in 1697. They built a magnificent stone mission that same year, which still served the local Catholic parish more than three hundred years later. Loreto, however, never grew and prospered, because it lacked a sheltered port on the Sea of Cortez. Local watercraft were limited to a few dozen banana-shaped pangas owned by fishermen, who left them haphazardly scattered along the local beaches, many of them belly-up in the sand.

Heading south from Insurgentes, in the direction opposite of Loreto, the more-traveled, primitive dirt road crossed rolling desert plains and skirted past solitary mountains, which rose here and there like lonely islands. A long day’s journey south by truck brought travelers to the largest city on the southern Baja Peninsula, La Paz. Nearly all commerce supporting the sparse population of the Baja California Sur Territory passed through La Paz. Ships from the Mexican mainland and beyond anchored in the bay, and a semi-weekly ferry provided passage between La Paz and the home country. Oddly, the inhabitants of Baja California Sur referred to the mainland as Mexico, as if it were another country.

Of the inhabitants of Rancho San Juanico, only a few of the older men had ventured as far south as La Paz. Their stories, and those of rare visitors, along with a few worn copies of old magazines, provided the only information of the outside world. In San Juanico, a lonely cemetery stood by itself between the date palm grove and a small half-circle of low-lying lava rock. The graves were scattered across the parched ground with little thought. A small number of barely legible headstones dated back to the early 1800s. The majority of the graves, however, were marked by decayed wooden crosses or simple piles of hand-sized stones. Most of them were sad little plots indicating an infant or a child. As for the others, fifty years was a very old age.

Rancho San Juanico

1965

Juan Carlos Amador Murillo was joined by a younger sister, Maricela, in 1961. The little family lived day to day in their pathetic shanty, suffering the brutal poverty that was Rancho San Juanico. The children never laid eyes on a tablet of aspirin or a Band-Aid, nor had they ever tasted any toothpaste. Their diets bordered on nutritional starvation. They were unaware of the hardships, because they knew nothing else. Their smiles, laughter, and antics warmed the hearts of one and all, as most Mexican children did in villages and pueblos in remote, rural parts of the country. They would have been dumbfounded if told they were living in third-world conditions, or that they were not that many miles, as the eagle could easily soar, from places like Los Angeles, California, even Disneyland.

Young Juan Carlos liked to wander off by himself. He might gather a flock of hens and pretend they were goats to be herded, or he might spy on the quail that came during the evenings for water at the spring. He would sometimes surprise a coyote or a group of desert bighorn sheep at the water. One memorable evening, he saw a young bighorn taken down by a mountain lion. The lion had been laying quietly in the date palm thicket, waiting. It could have easily taken Juan Carlos, but its natural prey did not include five-year-old humans.

The intimidatingly large cat ignored the boy, who unwittingly walked directly in front of it as it patiently waited. Mere seconds later, it viciously attacked a group of bighorns that approached the water hole opposite and a few feet to the side. The desperate, agonizing squeals from the stricken animal, the explosion of dust as the other animals turned and fled, and the spray of bright red arterial blood that saturated the lion’s terrifyingly primeval face, imprinted immediately in the boy’s memory. He never had time to react, because it happened so fast. He simply froze in place, and when he regained his wits, he back-stepped slowly out of the palm grove as the animal hovered over its kill and growled. Only then did Juan Carlos become fearful and begin to vomit as he turned and ran toward the safety of the garden where he huddled in the corner among the chili plants, as he convulsed and cried for most of an hour. Later that evening, after he had recovered, he boastfully told his parents the story of the lion and the bighorn. His father smiled with pride and patted the boy on the shoulder while his mother cringed and tried to put the thought of it out of her mind.

The next day, without a word to anyone, Juan Pedro borrowed a .22 rifle from his neighbor, and he tracked down and shot the lion dead. He knew that it would be only a matter of time before it turned its attention to goats and small children. The villagers all shared in the lion meat that evening for their meal.

Juan Carlos’ favorite time of day was the evening, when his father was home discussing the day’s events with his mother. His imagination was lively and vivid. When he could no longer stand still, he would pester his parents with questions, but mostly he listened and processed the abstract thoughts in his head. Luisa laughed at him and said his mind was like a jaw trap.

One late summer evening that year, Juan Carlos noticed that his father seemed distracted and restless. Juan Pedro had a pouch of tobacco he saved for special occasions, and this particular evening, he brought it out and carefully rolled a cigarette. Carlos watched as his Papa lit the cigarette, inhaled, and formed his thoughts before speaking to Luisa, who was kneading a mound of tortilla dough on a rickety wooden table across the small room.

Alonso is sick with the grippe. He asked me to take the mules to Insurgentes this week, Pedro said, as he flicked the ashes from the cigarette off to the side without watching where they settled. That was all he said, watching the smoke rise from the cigarette, he patiently waited for a response.

Luisa looked up, still kneading the dough, thought it over for a moment, and replied, But you have traveled there only once in your life, and that was with Alonso. God only knows how many years ago. Do you think it’s wise for you to make that long journey without him?

Why do I need Alonso? A blind man could follow that trail, and those old mules have been to Insurgentes more times than I’ve had birthdays, he sucked another drag from the cigarette. They could lead themselves. I would only be along for the ride and to unload the supplies. Besides, Alonso told me that Felix would be going with me.

Luisa looked up again from her kneading and rolled her eyes. She said flatly with a hint of sarcasm, Felix is just a boy. What help would he be?

Her response got an immediate rise out of Juan Pedro, and he asserted himself by answering, He’s eighteen years old, and he’s been to Insurgentes four times just in the last year. The boy has as much muscle as any one of those mules! Just last week, I watched him wrestle a four-hundred-pound steer to the ground and hog-tie it before the animal knew what happened. Have you looked at him lately? He’s as big and strong as any man in this village, except probably for me!

Luisa stopped her kneading, and her face flushed to stifle a laugh. She responded, Ahh, there you go. Reminding me that I’m married to the only real man in San Juanico! Please, forgive me Pedro, if sometimes I forget how lucky I am. Maybe I should remind you that I am the smartest and most beautiful woman in all of San Juanico!

That you are, Luisa, that you are. I can’t argue with you, he replied with a smile. He took a long pull on the cigarette.

After an awkward silence, Luisa asked in a more serious tone, If you went to Insurgentes, what would I do all those nights here alone, without you? And you, hornier than that Billy goat out there? God only knows where you might end up, after a night drinking too much tequila!

Pedro smiled again and took another deep pull on his cigarette, as he studied his wife standing at the table, kneading the dough. At twenty-eight, he agreed that she was the most beautiful woman in San Juanico. They had been married for fourteen years, and unlike most women her age, she hadn’t grown heavy and round. She was strong and active, and it seemed to him she was always in motion. Her breasts were average size but loose under the thin rag of her blouse. They sagged slightly more than before she bore the children, but they were a perfect size on her wiry frame. She moved with natural grace, although her hips and thighs had widened. As far as he was concerned, she was far more attractive in full womanhood than when they’d married. Her long dark brown hair reached down to her lower back, and she kept it braided in a tail behind or coming forward over her right shoulder. There were strands of silver he had begun to notice. Her eyes always sparkled and faint wrinkles appeared around the edges when she smiled. Unlike many women faced with the challenges of miserable poverty in middle age, Luisa seemed to always be smiling. And to Pedro’s unending delight, she had a huge sexual appetite and a brilliant imagination that she shared enthusiastically with him. He knew what a lucky man he was.

Ahh, but life is so short, Luisa, he finally answered. You wouldn’t deny me a little tequila after such a dangerous journey, would you? he asked with a chuckle.

Hinting at his mischief, Luisa smiled before she spoke and said, No, old man. I think you would deserve some tequila, especially after braving such a long, treacherous journey, where you, alone in all your manhood, were in charge of a skinny teenager and some worn-out old mules. Then, maybe one night after you get there, just before you’re fallen-down drunk as a fool, before you get sick and puke your guts on the ground, you could taste yourself a young señorita again. I promise you, Juan Pedro Murillo, the next day, before her perfume wore off, you’d wish you were home with the real woman of your dreams! Before this night is through, I’ll remind you what that’s like!

I know. I know, he said a bit sheepishly.

The conversation confused young Juan Carlos.

Following another long silence, as Pedro finished his cigarette, he resumed the conversation from a different angle.

Really, Luisa, I’ve been thinking it might be a good time for me to go and do this. Alonso tells me there’s serious talk in Insurgentes about building a road from San Juanico to over there. Some people think it might be possible one day for a truck to travel across the desert, all the way back here to San Juanico. Just think, what takes more than a week on a mule would take only one day in a truck. Think about how much more a truck can carry than a mule, and a truck could come two or three times a week. Think about that for a minute, woman, would you just?

Luisa didn’t wait to respond. There you go dreaming again! No wonder Juan Carlos always thinks of so many strange things. He gets it from you!

I could help make this happen! I’d like to see how happy you’d be if a truck full of food and everything else you need drove right here to the front your palapa! What would you think of that, huh?

When I see it, I’ll believe it. If it’s so easy, why hasn’t Alonso thought of it already? He’s been making the journey to Insurgentes for as long as I can remember, and I’ve never heard him say a word about it.

Alonso loves his mules and that way of life, and I think he likes having time away from Julia. He probably doesn’t care about a new road. I like Julia, you know I do, but do you ever see her happy? When was the last time you saw her laugh or even make a smile? I think if I was Alonso, I might prefer to spend my time with the mules, too.

Luisa finished kneading and brushed her hands on her threadbare, dull-colored skirt. She studied Pedro for a moment. He was staring at the last of the twilight, and she thought about what a good man he was. He always put her and the children first, and she knew better than anyone how terrible he felt about their hopeless poverty and their decrepit living conditions.

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, Luisa, Pedro began again. What do you think I do when I’m out there with the goats all day? You think I mindlessly follow them around through the catclaw? I thought we might open a little store. We could sell kerosene, vegetables, lard, flour, and cans of food. We could sell material to make clothes. Everyone always needs clothes around here. Think about it, Luisa. Our lives would never be the same!

Juan Carlos couldn’t resist, and he suddenly spoke up. Papa, would a truck really come here to the palapa? Can I go with you to Insurgentes? I can ride a mule, you know. You’ve seen me!

No, no, no, Carlos, Luisa responded. Your Papa is just talking right now. Insurgentes is too far away for a small boy to go. When you’re older, you can travel to Insurgentes.

Pedro looked at his son and said, I believe that before you’re as old as Felix is now, you will see a truck drive here to our palapa. I do.

Juan Carlos’ face wrinkled in worry, and he asked, Can you bring a truck back with you?

Not this time, but when one finally comes, you can get in and go for a long ride! Right now though, it’s time for you and Maricela to go to bed. I want to talk to your mother some more.

Although, it was long into the evening, Juan Pedro was feeling alive. He wanted to think. He stepped across the hard-packed dirt floor and reached for his tobacco pouch wedged between the palm fronds in the ceiling. He couldn’t recall when he’d last rolled two cigarettes and smoked them both in one night.

As he inhaled the first drag of his second cigarette, he sat down outside on a wobbly old bench under the edge of the palapa-covered overhang. He could hear Luisa arguing softly with the children behind him. As usual, the Baja stars hovered overhead in a thick, flickering blanket. He was tired. He was tired of herding goats. He was tired of watching Luisa try to feed their small family on dry beans, a precious spoonful of lard, a few tortillas, and maybe a cup of goat’s milk. On rare, special occasions, they might have a small block of goat cheese or, far less often, a precious piece of meat. Only about half the time did they have a spoonful of lard.

Pedro noticed one his neighbors a hundred yards away, bending over a small mesquite fire, and heard him clanging some pots and pans together. For some odd reason, it gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach. Their pathetic shanties were at least widely spaced enough across the valley floor that it provided them a small amount of privacy. Even so, they all shared two primitive latrines, and they all bathed behind nearly useless palm frond screens, using buckets of water and coarse sponges. Only a few men who had made the journey to Insurgentes or La Paz had ever seen a bathtub or taken a shower. The women could only dream of such things.

After putting the children down, Luisa joined Pedro on the bench. She placed her hand on his thigh as she sat. Over her shoulder, she looked at him with a crinkly expression and asked, Two cigarettes tonight? What are we celebrating? Her eyebrows rose with the question.

Pedro ran his hand back through his long dirty black hair and said, I want a better life for you and the children. You and I aren’t getting any younger, Luisa. Our lives are no different than our parents. My father was dead when he was forty-two! I might have only nine years left if I’m like him. Your father was gone at forty-five. Your mother died the day your brother was born. Is that all we have to look forward to? Luisa gave his thigh a slight squeeze as she let that thought sink in. She knew it was true.

Pedro blew another lungful of smoke off in the air and continued, I’ve decided I’m not going to grow old and die here in San Juanico without trying to make a better life. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. He turned and looked at her eyes, they were reflecting the stars.

I have this chance to go to Insurgentes, he continued, he grasped her hand. I’ve decided I’ll do more than just lead the mules and trade the cheese. I want to see a road built to Insurgentes. I want to meet the people in Insurgentes who can help us. I might be gone more than a week, he searched her eyes for reassurance.

Luisa pondered for a moment and a layer of creases, one on top of the other, crossed her forehead when she asked, Are you having what I heard someone call a ‘mid-life problem’?

Pedro didn’t answer. He simply sucked harder on the cigarette. His hand shook as he withdrew it from his mouth, and his lungs held still before he exhaled. Luisa noticed his hand trembling.

Luisa collected her thoughts after realizing the serious turn of the conversation, she said, Even though I give you a hard time, I want a better life too, Pedro. You know that. I make jokes about you dreaming, but that’s what I love about you. You know how to dream. Sometimes I forget to tell you, but I have dreams too. I have dreams for our children every day. If that road you want to build could bring us a schoolteacher, it would change our lives forever, she leaned into him as she said it. She smelled the strong tobacco odor on his breath.

It won’t be easy to make the changes you talk about, she went on, but how easy is it to live in this place with nothing? What food do we ever have? And stupid little things I never talk about – like the one pair of underwear I’ve owned in my life, a gift from my father on my tenth birthday. I wore them under my skirt until they wore out. They were the only piece of soft girl clothing I’ve ever had. I want my daughter to know how that feels. Is that too much to ask? she placed her arm around his shoulder.

They were quiet for a long time when Luisa said softly, Let’s take a bath. I want to give you some love, and I could use some myself. She nudged him and rose from the bench. She pulled gently on his hand for encouragement, in the direction of the palm frond screen.

Under the stars, Pedro and Luisa walked hand in hand without much purpose across the open yard to the screen. They stripped, piece by minimal piece, out of their filthy, ragged sweat-stained clothing. They kicked them off in the dirt. Their bodies smelled of goats and sweat. Luisa picked up the wet sponge and a piece of lye soap from the bucket. She slowly began to wash Pedro, from his filthy hair down to his feet. He did the same to her. He caressed her breasts with the soapy wet sponge and weighed each one in his hands. Her chocolaty nipples hardened with his touch and stood up under the thin film of soap. She ran the sponge over his flat stomach and scrubbed his chest and the pits of his arms. She massaged softly between his legs. She spent more time than needed there, making him clean.

Early the next morning, Pedro walked down the well-worn path to Alonso’s shack, the largest one in the village. Alonso, an overweight man with a bushy head of gray hair, and a noticeable limp was boiling water on a cast-iron grill in the fire pit. A jar of Nescafé sat on a wooden table under the veranda.

Sit down, Pedro! Have some coffee with me Alonso ordered as he coughed and spit off to the side. This is Nescafé, he exclaimed as he held up the jar for Pedro to see. "I call it coffee in a jar. Everyone in Insurgentes is drinking it. You just boil the water and put some of this in the cup. It mixes