Dancing into eternity
Three years ago today, on Friday, November 16, 2018, I arrived at San Jose de Comondu, a small village tucked away into a lush palm oasis at the foot of the Sierra de la Giganta mountains on Mexico’s Baja Peninsula. I was traveling alone by bike, following the trails along the Sierra and Baja Divide of upper and lower California.
Maneuvering my bike down the last section of a steep, rough road before entering the village, I felt as if I was transported into the past, into the times before the Jesuits built their mission in this lush oasis in 1708, and the peoples of Cochimi tribe moved freely in their native land. Approaching the first houses, I was surrounded by tall, lush palm trees, but noticed charred trunks. When I reached the first stone and brick houses of this quaint village, many of them were showing the signs of recent burn. At first, the village looked deserted, and my hopes for finding a place to spend the night quickly evaporated. The massive stone mission was bathed in golden hues of the setting sun, and the shadows were getting longer. My tired muscles ached, and my stomach was growling. Riding slowly on cobblestoned road looking for the convenience store and a place to crash for the night, I passed an elderly couple walking hand in hand toward the plaza and the Mission. Something told me I should greet them. I dismounted my bike, which always grew heavier at the end of a long day of riding and waited for them to catch up. “Buenas noches.” I greeted them and they both answered with a warm, welcoming reply: “Hola!” The man added in Spanish: “Where are you from, Germany?” I told them I was from Slovenia and that got the conversation started. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and I asked them if they knew where I could pitch my tent for the night. I learned their names were Rosalva and Omar. They looked at each other and without another word spoken between them, Omar said to me: “But of course, you can come and spend the night at our home. Be our guest.” I was stunned and couldn’t believe my luck.
We turned around and walked to their home just a hundred feet back. They apologetically asked me to excuse the mess. They were just finishing rebuilding and repairing the family home after the fire swept through the village a year earlier. Omar turned on the hot water heater so I could take a shower, and Rosalva showed me to a room with three beds which belonged to their grown-up daughters. Like Goldilocks, I tested them all. Rosalva heated vegetable soup which immediately revived me and for dessert she served fresh local goat cheese and dates which grow on the palm trees in their backyard. After I showered, we walked to the center of town, where a group of musicians practiced for the weekend performance. The village was preparing for the wine festival, one of the biggest events of the year. They introduced me to some of their friends, but there were only about ten, twelve people milling around. Luckily, they soon grew tired, and we headed back to their house. I wasn’t complaining. My body yearned for a soft and safe bed.
The morning dance
That night I slept like a baby and in the morning at breakfast of eggs, tortillas, goat cheese and a cup of tea brewed with fresh citrus leaves, sweetened with local honey, Rosalva and I discussed the secret to her happy, loving marriage. She married Omar when she was 16 and he 26. Love, of course, but what is love? In her words, love is taking care of her husband, taking care of their daughters when they were growing up in La Paz; love is keeping the home nice and tidy, and stress-free for her husband. Love is mutual respect, tolerance, patience, and avoiding quick judgment. Love is singing and dancing together. And they did. Their favorite song came on, which they have danced to for nearly 50 years in their long life together. They danced in their kitchen at breakfast right in front of me. That image will stay in my mind for the rest of my life.
The next morning, I rode off after we hugged and exchanged phone numbers and promises we would stay in touch. I was powered by fresh energy up the steep road leading out of the valley. I knew I gained new friends, and after I finished my two month long ride, I visited them in their home in La Paz. They also came to visit my husband and me at our house in La Ventana Bay and brought along their daughter, her husband, and their grandson. Rosalva and I texted each other often. On November 29. 2019, a year after we met, she sent me a message that Omar passed away. It was heartbreaking, but Rosalva found grace in God and her family. We stayed in touch, and I would continue to have luncheons with her in La Paz. Then COVID swept through, and we could only communicate via WhatsApp. Lunch visits would have to wait.
Last month, I flew to Baja with my son Tilen to open up our house and get it ready for our winter stay. I was looking forward to meeting up with Rosalva, since we were vaccinated and COVID restrictions eased.
A message popped up on my phone and I was happy to see it was from Rosalva, but as I started reading the message, I was confused. It was not from Rosalva, but from her daughter Marsella. It took me a moment to translate and understand the meaning of the message: “Our mother Rosalva passed away. She spent two weeks in the hospital fighting complications from COVID.” She told me that the whole family was infected and Marsella’s brother-in-law also died.
This was tragic news for the family, and I was saddened by it. What I did not expect was the void this would create in my life. I pick up my phone often in order to send Rosalva a message because a sudden thought popped into my mind, and then I remember she will no longer read it.
