the todos santos diaries, day #2
HEY YOU!
I'm on vacation, which means I have some time to do some personal writing, which means I'm going to start writing this again. As always, you never have to read what I write — and jeez, who needs another newsletter in their inbox? — but I'm very glad you do.
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DISCUSSED: beaches that you can't swim at, Tulum, climate change, gentrification, Marías, ants
I realized I hadn't traveled internationally in a minute when I was booking my flight here, to Mexico; I think the last time I used my passport was probably a couple years ago, during a semi-disastrous trip I took to Paris and Antigua — which you can read about here, if you’re curious. And even though I don’t think there’s really a value to having traveled*, it was a little surprising, if only because I’ve gone to more than a few new places since. The only reason it even occurred to me that I could go somewhere foreign to me in the first place was an email from American Airlines saying that I had a bunch of miles I’d accumulated that were going to otherwise expire if I didn’t book a trip or something in the next X days. This was stressful. I won’t bore you with the details, because my therapist and my girlfriend bore the brunt of my indecision.
I picked Todos Santos — pop. 6,485; translation: “All Saints” — on a whim, because I spent a few minutes googling and saw some Vogue blog proclaiming it something like the “new Tulum”; I’m a sucker for that particular kind of advertising, so I copped a ticket, booked a $40-a-night Airbnb, and curled myself into a few different seats on a few different planes.
First: I don’t think this is the new Tulum, if only because the gorgeous beaches near town aren’t particularly swimmable. The second thing, which contradicts the first: if TS is the new Tulum, it’s only because tourists are the same everywhere, and generate the same sort of industry to cater to them. (Think: the neighboring Baja California Sur town of Cabo San Lucas, pop. 81,111, which is the apotheosis of a place made for transitory guests.)
But let me unwind that thought a bit further. Tulum has come to represent somewhere that feels hidden, and only unfolds itself to the discerning, those people with taste. Obviously this is a carefully-maintained illusion, crafted by the people who benefit and presumably need it to be true the most. TS, on the other hand, feels somewhat indifferent. Last night, I had a conversation in halting Spanish with a server at a restaurant, and he told me I’d find a lot of tranquility here. The other server echoed the first guy’s sentiment: TS is a place that goes from 9 to 5. No parties.
At the same time, that's exactly what I wanted to hear. I am so, so tired, y’all. The internet is not a particularly sustainable workplace, especially not when you’ve gotten into a compulsive habit of checking Slack whenever a red activity badge shows up, and especially not when your job is keeping tabs on whatever’s happening in a particular corner of online. This is not a novel sentiment, but it is helpful for me to keep in mind. And anyway, as I’ve learned, if you’re one of these people to which that sentiment applies, you already know relaxation takes practice. If it’s not habit-forming that’s only because it is predicated on a ready and steady cash flow. Everyone I know would enjoy being part of the idle rich, or even just the kind of rich that lets you pick the creative projects you really want to do without thinking too hard about your finances.
The other reason I’m here is that, paradoxically, I thought it might be a good place to write. I have finally figured out how hard it is to get anything done in New York City without extremely healthy creative habits. Which are hard to maintain, at least in my case, because I have a limited amount of juice and a ton of self-imposed obligations. (Please do not diagnose me as that Dril tweet, because I will not change my candle budget.) I am trying to learn how to unclench. It is a process.
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This morning I had a breakfast sandwich and a strong black coffee at the restaurant on the corner, and I settled in to people-watch for a minute before heading to the beach because that’s my favorite thing to do when I’m traveling alone.
“I just love how small town it is!” effused a daughter-in-law to her son's grandmother. Which is true; Todos Santos is small. What is also true: her toddler looked a little like a bug, in an oddly princely way. I saw a fly land on his small forehead and he ignored it, as though he was born with a stiff upper lip, or was a little Taurus. Next to them there was a conspicuously bilingual woman holding down a table underneath a fan, away from those omnipresent and very tenacious flies (because flies, like mosquitos, are apparently weak fliers). She wore a hat with a large brim, and was over-familiar with everyone in a non-threatening way; and in her way, she belonged. We were both writing in our journals.
The first beach I went to was unswimmable, mostly deserted, and at the end of a long dirt road. A faded blue sign just in front of the sand said its dunes were a protected area because sea turtles spawned there. Further back, just off the sand, there were luxury developments going up, which feels similar; the people who are building them are also an endangered species. From a recent report:
It should be noted that a significant proportion of tourist visitors or residents (temporary or year-round) are elderly people who acquire properties in search of a more beneficial climate than in their countries of origin (U.S. and Canada, primarily). [...]
Tourism occupancy in the region of Los Cabos could be affected in two ways: On the one hand, with the decline in hotel occupancy in the aftermath of extreme climatic events (hurricanes, waterspouts, etc.) and, on the other hand, with the loss of economic value of timeshares and properties associated with its greater environmental vulnerability. The two aforementioned occurrences would be the beginning of a chain that would bring the slo down of economic activities in the state.
I decided to go to another unswimmable beach at the end of another dirt road, the one where the locals fish. In 2015, there was a fight over a boutique eco-tourist resort development going up — a project led by Denver’s Black Creek Group — that was draining the town’s water supply and was seemingly destroying the beach; at one point, the fishermen and their families blockaded the construction site, demanding to speak with corporate representatives. (Here’s some more detail, if you’re curious.) Anyway, the finished hotel has a beautiful Instagram. I only watched the waves break for a little while.
I went to a third beach, which is about a half hour from where I’m staying; you can swim there, but it was mostly given over to beginner surfers and a "beach club." It was just after noon, and no fewer than two dudes asked me if I wanted to learn how to surf. I went to the bar instead and ordered a Pacifico. The couple next to me ordered something called a Cadillac; one had Midori in it. And yes, they both had kanji tattooed on their backs.
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If it sounds like I’m being negative, know that I’m really trying not to be; I am enjoying myself immensely, even if the white dudes look mostly like grinning, leathery skulls. It is breathtakingly beautiful: god’s own country. The desert smashes right up against the ocean, and there are actual forests of Cardón cactus. On the drive in, I saw a glossy wild horse grazing by the highway, near a canyon; a few minutes later, I saw a hawk take flight, a snake hanging limply from its beak. I feel small in my tiny white car, floating across the quiet dirt roads like a ghost. I can hear the waves breaking and palm leaves flapping from my casita; I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they sound the same.
Earlier today, at the breakfast spot, I was reading Javier Marías’s A Heart So White. I’d just gotten to the part where he writes about the tuneless, unconscious singing people do when they’re distracted or otherwise occupied as something that binds women together. We all live in our heads, in other words, and no matter what we do our emotions manage to express themselves. It felt meaningful to me, if only because I think now that this trip was the unconscious expression of something I've been repressing. There's no revelation here, really, and a cliché says it best: I needed to get away. Which is another way of saying my subconscious and American Airlines forced me to take a beach vacation because I couldn't otherwise deal with the mounting stress I'd been feeling. I like to be busy because being busy feels like it means I'm earning my place in my professional and social worlds, but that's not how either of those things work. Nor is it healthy, as I doubtless do not need to remind you.
Today, I’ve also been watching the ants crawl up and down my walls. It seems meaningless to me but of course it has a purpose; of course the ants move according to a system. They bump into each other, and then pause as if confirming an instruction. They won’t notice me unless I choose to intervene. And I don't, unless I see them crawling out of my keyboard.
Love,
Bijan
* Honestly, the important bit about traveling, the part that people are trying (and failing) to advertise on their dating profiles, is that it makes it easier to observe and therefore empathize with other people. Being self-aware enough to care what other people think is harder to do when you’re wealthy, and going to a new place with a different culture can function as a shortcut. That said, you can achieve the same effect by going somewhere familiar and trying to see it as an outsider might; using a notebook and a camera to document your observations helps.