Living in a Van in Mexico Was My Greatest Teacher
Rescuing a dog, succumbing to disease, embracing challenge
Deep value resides in trekking into the unknown. In our culture stripped of important initiation experiences, we must now create our own. We must leave the comforts of our known world to enter into the wilds of the unknown. We must jump in the deep end, if you will, and swim like hell.
I didn’t know said lesson before reaching Mexico in 2019. Mexico will feel like a vacation, I thought.
Comfortable beach frolicking, ideal weather, nourishing fruits, and tequila all lingered at the top of my imaginary itinerary.
Ha! What a far-fetch from the 3 months of blood, shaking, panic, and other bodily fluids and emotions I’d discover through a country teeming with surprise, the first of which swept me up in a stormy sea of doubt.
The cool air of Guerrero Negro splashed my face as I rolled down the windows of my Dodge Ram Van. The dusk was red. Wind blew red sand onto my windshield. Even my sweating face was red. I rolled through town wondering where to pull over to sleep. With every bead of sweat I grew more concerned about where to refill my water jugs.
…Okay, it would be a miracle if I could lay out my whole story here for you in travelogue form. But that would be way too long. 200 pages long. So that’s a story for another time.
Basically, know this: I safely crossed the border into Tijuana, drove through countless military stops to Bahía de los Angeles, discovered it was way too hot (it was August), got stuck in the sand miles away from civilization, finally escaped, and fled to Guerrero Negro where temperatures were more reasonable and dehydration less of a threat.
Open Google Maps and research Guerrero Negro. You’ll see that this unique town is on the north end of Baja California Sur. It’s a salt mining town on the pacific ocean. I found a safe spot to sleep right on the water. Jumping in the cool Pacific felt like baptism after surviving 100-degree expanses of desert.
On my 3rd day, I drove into town to fill water and to empty my trash. I saw a dog dying in the street. She was emaciated with a leg smashed to pieces. I scooped her up, cleaned her wounds, and fed her.
The next day, a vet told me the leg would need amputating. He suggested taking her to mainland Mexico to see a vet with better resources. I named the dog Guerrera and left for mainland Mexico the next day.
I caught a ferry in La Paz. It was unbearably hot. I kept expecting to look over and see Guerrera dead, tongue hanging out the mouth and all.
After reaching Mazatlán on mainland Mexico, I ran into a new problem. My ulcerative colitis began flaring. I was diagnosed with this disease when I was 11. It enjoys acting up at the most inconvenient times. Now the dog and I both bled, she from her leg and me from my colon.
After crying and laying low for a night, I begin the journey from Mazatlán to Guadalajara via Tequila. Did you know that Tequila is a place? It’s a beautiful colonial town with cobblestone streets, Spanish churches, and vast fields of agave.
In Tequila, despite the lure of the beverages and street chilaquiles, I made resolved to stick to a diet of fruits in the day and vegetables for dinner. My colon thanked me.
We were both doing better, Guerrera and I, so we stuck to the streets of Tequila for a week.
Let me fast-forward a bit. We eventually made it to Guadalajara and an experienced vet-surgeon who claimed he could spare Guerrera’s leg. He placed an external fixture on the outside of the leg, enabling the bones to mend together.
Then I needed to mend my mind after exerting copious amounts of energy on saving Guerrera. I wanted to do something for myself, and I did. I went to Tepoztlán.
Tepoztlán? It’s a town just south of Mexico City teeming with indigenous influence. It’s also where a self-proclaimed healer claimed he could heal my ulcerative colitis.
The road to Tepoztlán was drowning in rain. I kept to the right lane and drove 30. Semis sped past me at 80.
Driving and seeing the Mexican landscape imbued me with a new sense of adventure. It was now October. The weather was cooled. I felt good things were ahead.
Pulling into town early the next morning, I entered a portal into the past. The town was of the earth—cobble streets made of the earth, Stone buildings made of the earth, and mountains (obviously of the earth) blanketing the town like watchful gods.
High on one of the mountains stood El Tepozteco, an Aztec temple and offering to the god Tepoztēcatl.
Guerrera and I actually rented an Airbnb in the supposed birthplace of Tepoztēcatl, a village called Amatlán a stone's throw away from town. Okay, that’s overexaggerating. More like a small bus ride.
On my third day, I surveyed the city and outdoor market with Guerrera. We stopped in at a local favorite for coffee and WiFi. A man kept looking at me over his newspaper. He looked at me like he had something I needed.
The man came over and introduced himself as an herbalist, but wouldn’t reveal his real name. He told me he was an ex-pat, an American who no longer had a social security number. He told me that because he had healed so many people from diseases incurable by conventional medical standards, the government was after him. He had had to flee the country.
I told him I had ulcerative colitis. “Do you have an herb for that?” I snickered.
But he looked me deeply in the eyes and told me yes. He told me that he had resolved multiple cases of ulcerative colitis and Crohn’s disease.
My desperation outweighed my suspicion. At an invitation to visit his home and see his herbs, I agreed. It turned out his home was in Amatlán, the same town as my Airbnb.
The herbalist’s home was an abode nearly buried in forest. He was a minimalist; the inside contained only books and a few Aztec-looking trinkets. Guerrera found a place on the floor and slept. I went upstairs with the herbalist.
Upstairs he handed me a dropper-bottle full of yellow liquid. He told me that if it was actually ulcerative colitis I had, that the liquid would cure it. I didn’t know what to think. He told me that if it worked, to just send him an email with a donation. He handed me a slip of paper with his information and sent me on my way.
On my walk back through the jungle, I wondered, naturally, if the yellow liquid was poison.
The yellow liquid was not poison, but it also did not cure my ulcerative colitis. By the time I reached Oaxaca city, my final destination, I was still bleeding all the same. Now over 2,000 miles away from home, I wondered if it was time to return.
I drove into the mountains, ate mushrooms, cried as Guerrera played with crickets, and decided yes, it was time to return. Guerrera would come back with me to my home near Los Angeles.
Driving home took many days. A thought kept sweeping over my mind, a thought that concretized the more miles north I drove. It was how there are no quick fixes in our universe that move at a snail’s pace. Guerrera’s leg took months to heal. It took me days to escape the heat of Baja. Finding a solution to my colitis could take months.
We all want a yellow liquid to drink to resolve our problems. But it's the miles we travel in life that really count.
This piece excludes many things I hope to find room for elsewhere: unfair treatment by corrupt police, beautiful cities I could take up hundreds of pages writing about, thoughts and feelings about cartels and Mexico’s enormous military presence…
But I’ll leave you with this, reader, for sticking with me this far: In Mexico, I felt the full spectrum of human emotion, and I plan to place myself in situations for the rest of my life where I’ll continue to feel them.
I suggest you do the same.
