El Refugio: Tijuana Mission Trip, July 2025

The drive to the site yesterday was memorable. Through El Niño and Ojo de Agua, where we saw two houses we built, one last year and one the year before that. Bustling, this city. The Ojo de Agua road heads south and eventually makes an intersection with Highway 2. Busy intersection. There is a traffic light but the light seemed only to heighten the chaos. I was making a right on a green. A semi coming through from across the freeway must have had a green yield for its left-hand turn but this truck was bound and determined to make its left, oncoming traffic be darned. It was a free-for-all. We headed west/southwest on the highway for perhaps ten miles before preparing to take a left against/across the traffic coming the other way on what, at that spot, was a three-lane highway, with some cars traveling at about 50 mph. As is custom in Tijuana, some of the cars coming the opposite way see that traffic needs to turn and they stop so the turning traffic can get across the road. Two out of three oncoming lanes had vehicles pausing to let me turn, but one lane was still thrumming through at full speed. So the cars that wait out of courtesy get a hat tip from me but unless all of the traffic is going to wait, the partial courtesy is pointless. I waited a bit until I knew I could make it across regardless of whether oncoming traffic was going to stop or not. I floored it across the three lanes only to have to stop pretty quickly because there were all kinds of semis and other trucks stacked up at the mouth of the road we were turning onto, the surface of which was dirt and rough. There are basically no rules for driving in Tijuana except one: don't screw up. Luckily, I was not the only person uncomfortable with the idea of making this turn again, which we didn't. Our Amor rep Davíd took us to the site by way of another route the rest of the week—a route which was longer but also new, to me, and quite picturesque in the way Tijuana can be, reminiscent of an old dusty town in Italy I might visit some day next decade.

The troubling left hand turn behind us, we took the dirt road into the neighborhood of El Refugio. Which is absolutely booming. Huge factories, one after another. Maquiladoras: factories in Mexico run by a company from another country which will export the product out of Mexico to the U.S. and beyond. We started to climb the dirt road first around and then up and behind a huge long metal-roofed plant run by a company called Watkins Wellness, which an internet search indicated was in the business of making hot tubs.

Past the hot tub factory and climbing through a network of dirt roads cut into a towering hillside replete with pockets of construction, it was like the early days terraforming the surface of Mars. Climbing, turning, twisting, dry dirt roads that were actually pretty smooth, scrubland all around us, not quite the desert, not quite Sonoran. We kicked up dust, the van wearing it like a sheen. But as we got up higher into the hillside the view turned panoramic, looking west, north, east, the city of Tijuana one big factory chugging along in the dusty sunlight. City to the north below us, a quarry underneath our feet. Earth moving machines, Caterpillars, bulldozers, backhoes, jackhammers, hulking water trucks. Houses being built all around us, not densely but here and there as far as you could see. Terraces, steps, plumes of dust, roads being dug out of the hills. Not mining in space but mining for space. The city must grow, it will go where it will, into the hills, carve out a new neighborhood. Groundbreaking, small crews at work on some of the nascent buildings, others project on hold without anyone around, abandoned, for now. Some of the houses you'd be happy to live in in America, others more basic, others only half-done with cinder block walls. No cookie-cutter houses here, not an America-style development but much more diverse, each lot according to its own budget, its own schedule...


Read the full account of the trip here...

Baja Notes (2022 edition)

As I sit on the balcony and look east/southeast, I can see a few of the tall buildings downtown.  And I can see the masts of dozens and dozens of sailboats.  No water is visible but it is implied.  Seagulls huff and squeal.

Two guys, four rods between them.  Getting ready to cross the street by foot, from the Landing side.  One is wheeling a small suitcase.  One carries an over-the-shoulder bag, the other has a backpack.  Both sport galoshes.  One is carrying a double-sack that looks heavy.  Ice and fish.

I could write more about these fisherman but not today.  Maybe I should have planned to stay right here again on the back-end of my excursion to Tijuana?  I love this balcony.  I could sit here all week.  I don’t need to go downtown.  I can get a good burrito and beer over here.  Hashtag regret.  Next time.  Or on some future vacation.  It’s expensive but when Comic-Con is in town, what’s not?  

It’s a grey day but don’t they all start this way in San Diego?  The temperature is perfect and it’s only a matter of time before I’ll be slapping on sunscreen, reaching for my hat.  I’ve buried the lede, though.  I’ve been so engrossed in the fishing traffic that I’ve failed to mention Dan C reaching out to me by text at 4:41.  Dan is the leader of the trip I’m taking into Tijuana with Burlingame Presbyterian, my third such foray but the first in three years (COVID).  

Dan was asking me about my flight, when it gets in.  I said, “Yesterday!”  To which he replied, “Great!”  But all is not great.  One of the flights scheduled to bring in some of our group from the San Francisco airport has been flat-out canceled.  This will delay us for sure.  How long, that’s the question.  The plan was for everyone to meet at the San Diego airport at 10:30 when some of us, including me, would go get the rental vans before returning to the airport to pick up most of the rest of the group.  We have 15 to 20 people this year.  Once we get to Tijuana we will camp east of the city, with mountains in the distance.  This week we will build a basic 11’ x 22’ house for a family of four in the Antorcha neighborhood of Tijuana.  It is an act of charity, coordinated by a ministry called Amor....


Continue reading my account of last year's trip to San Diego and Tijuana...

Sketches of East of Here

I. Setting Out.

My brother is driving. I'm in the backseat at liberty to write. Dad, riding shotgun, shuffles through sheets of paper explaining stock valuations and physical therapy exercises.

The car is a 2015 Buick Lucerne with 62,000 miles on it and counting. Destination: Ludlow, Massachusetts, where my dad grew up, where he's from, where he still has family: his cousins, his aunt (who turns 88 in two days), his sister (who he hasn't seen in 25 years), his niece (likewise).

We left Belleville, Illinois, at 8 a.m. this morning, yours truly behind the wheel. Football (a.k.a. soccer) streams on satellite radio, channel 157, the European Championship tournament. This is the first round of the tournament, dubbed group play. Earlier, Russia knocked off Finland. Now, it's Turkey and Wales.

It's been awhile since I've been in a car's backseat. I'm enjoying it; it feels like a luxury. Like I'm flying on an airplane. What else is there to do but to read, to write? To describe, to explain, to tell?

At the first rest stop, my dad pointed at some new socks he was wearing.

"What do you think of these?" he asked...


Click to continue with my account of traveling by car to Ludlow, MA with my dad and brother to visit family there...

I Don’t Know What It Is About A Field

In eastern Butler County the fields opened up, took on the wispy gold of uncut hay. Not long after that hills appeared. I could see the outcome of geological events, the hint of a rock facade where the road cut through. But the grass didn't mind the hills and it ran long and uncut up and down the slopes still. A valley appeared, a vantage, a vista. I thought of some of that scene from Dances With Wolves where they creep up to a crest and look down to see a herd of buffalo grazing in peace.

It would've been a good place to stop but I was going 75 and I was only an hour into the drive. It's a spot to think about, for another. A spot worth reaching over into the glove compartment and pulling out this notebook for, an emergency notebook, never been written in before, the two notebooks I did bring secure in my bag.

I'm east of Wichita, KS on U.S. Highway 54, where Butler County ends and Greenwood County begins. Hay, cow ponds, the cattle so dark against the golden light of the field, dark against the blue of the sky, against the shapely hills.

FDR had some sort of windbreak tree-planting program. A shelterbelt. I never gave much thought to windbreaks, to trees as a line against the wind. This tree I keep seeing, that is so prevalent, must have been one of the trees of choice for the shelterbelt planting. It's often got a lopsided crown and most of the time its trunk splits into two not far from the ground, a couple of feet, maybe less. This tree, whatever it is, is not at Farm. It's a Dust Bowl thing. Kansas, Oklahoma, the Texas panhandle, northeastern New Mexico.


Continue with Part One of this travelogue...

Noise is the Ripping of Time

Dateline Farm, woodsmoke hands, Miles on a Bluetooth speaker.

It's a riff from the Jack Johnson Sessions. It's not one of the better songs on the album but it's not the worst music I've heard today.

That 'reward' goes to the songs I heard coming across 'Orscheln Radio' whilst I searched for all and sundry at the Orscheln Farm and Home in Owensville, MO on my drive out here this afternoon. Folks, this is Hawley Country.

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Montanada

I wanted to get through the first section of this notebook on this trip.  The pages in this section are edged in blue.  I've got a ways to go, sorry to say.  I did not do enough describing of areas.  I was reluctant to write in the car and thereby pissed a lot of decent words down the drain.  I would have said more about how the plains looked once we were on the eastern side of the park, looking out toward the east.  It was what I called Custer's view.  East of the park, on the fat part of the divide, the land begins the process of flattening out and it's as though you can see for miles and miles and miles.  Maybe you can.  The colors were a range of maize yellows and sun-bleached wheat whites and dull greens and then of course the blue of the sky—that dumbstruck, blue-lipped blue.  The sky was free of clouds as we drove north to Canada on Wednesday but it was accentuated and supported by fairly high altostratus on the way back down.  It was mackerel sky in spots, probably my favorite day sky.

There was champagne—well, prosecco—in our room at the Belton yesterday.  It sat in a little ice bucket on a tray along with a card of congratulations and two up-ended champagne flutes.  B had told them it was our 10-year anniversary trip, which was true.  It was the same brand of prosecco as was waiting in the fridge at our cabin (Reclusive Moose), for Patrick and Anne-Marie in recognition of their tenth.  This was not coincidence.  One of the co-owners of the cabin is the general manager at the Belton.  The other co-owner was waiting tables at the restaurant there last night.  Small town in a small world, I guess.

Continue reading about this trip to Montana and Canada...