Several mornings a week
about ten a.m., the buses begin their descent from the crest of Punta Banda
into the tiny town of La Bufadora. They disgorge crowd after crowd of tourists
who swarm the “mall,” a row of shops lining the roadway to La Bufadora,
or the Blow Hole—one of Mexico’s most visited natural wonders. American
and Mexican visitors alike bargain with local shopkeepers for silver jewelry,
folk art, curios, sunglasses and leather goods. They munch on tacos, churros
and mangoes as they work their way out to the Blow Hole, where—if they’re
lucky—they’ll get drenched by one of its roaring blows.
La Bufadora. The
name actually comes from the verb bufar, which means to snort, so the literal
translation is, “The Snorter.” And it does snort, believe me, as the sea
is sucked into an underwater cave and explodes into the air. The first
time I visited here was back in the mid-70s. The only things around then
were a couple of outdoor restaurants with rusty metal tables and creaky,
folding chairs, lots of flies and a precarious, slippery path that led
right down to the water spout. Things have changed a lot in two and a half
decades. With the mall’s renovation a few years ago, and the addition of
electricity soon after, the place is able to offer a lot more to tourists
than it did before. Yet, somehow, it still has the flavor and feel of the
Mexico I grew up loving as a child, and missed until I rediscovered La
Buf six years ago.
To the gringos
like me, who have second homes and trailers at Rancho La Bufadora, a private
ranch surrounding Bahía Papalote, it’s paradise. It’s also the last
outpost on Baja’s Gold Coast, which stretches from the border to Ensenada.
Everywhere else is full of Americanized hotels charging Americanized prices.
Here there are a few houses and trailers to rent that you can ferret out,
but there’s no hotel. Most visitors never get any further south than the
outdoor deck of one of the many restaurants and taco stands. Let’s take
a tour, okay?
After you board
your tour bus (or point your car south) to La Bufadora, prepare to be awestruck
by the beauty that surprises you en route. Heading out of Ensenada, you’ll
see groves of olive trees, fields of artichokes, chiles, lettuce and flowers
as you pass through Maneadero and turn right onto a country road. Turning
west toward the peak that crowns Punta Banda, you’ll see more fields and
livestock. The multi-hued mountains to the south, the crisp blue of the
ocean and the winding waterways amid rushes of the estero (estuary) will
take your breath away. When you bounce over the last speed bump just past
La Jolla Camp, the road snakes along cliffs at the edge of Bahía
Todos Santos. The view you will have of Ensenada is the best there is.
If you came on a cruise ship, you’ll see it waiting at anchor behind the
huge Mexican flag on the port. If you’re making the drive during the late
winter or early spring—look out for mama and baby gray whales frolicking
in the turquoise waters below you.
As
you begin your descent into La Bufadora, look to the south. See all the
little houses and trailers dotting the hillside around the bay? The Blow
Hole is off to your right. The houses are all on private land owned by
the León family of Ensenada. (An interesting mistake we gringos
make is calling them the Toscano’s. The confusion comes because in Mexico
both the father’s and mother’s names are used. The father’s name is in
the middle, and is the correct last name, as in our patrón, renowned
political satirist, José León Toscano—a.k.a “El Tigre.”)
This is where I’ve spent as many weekends and vacations as possible for
the past six years. Once you park in town and finish checking out the shops
and the Blow Hole, take a few minutes to sit down at one of the ocean-view
restaurants. Order yourself an ice cold Pacifico, and look out across the
bay.
See the water
sparkle as sun rays dance across its surface? 
Notice
how its depth and clarity are evidenced by the aquamarine color, accented
with cobalt blue? See trails of bubbles rising up from divers exploring
the depths below? Whoa! Wasn’t that a seal whose head just popped up through
the kelp, surprising a pair of kayakers on their way out to the Blow Hole?
See the pelicans circling the cliffs in formation, then dive bombing into
the water to scoop up lunch? The craggy terrain may remind you of Greece;
the shoreline, for me, also conjures up visions of Big Sur. Are you beginning
to get a little more curious about those colorful houses dotting the hillside?
See that trailer
below you in the middle of the dirt lot right before the campsites? It
has a palapa over it, covering a big patio. A road leads up to it, outlined
in white rocks. That’s the official guard house. A dust-covered four-by-four
truck just drove up to it. The driver’s leaning out the open window to
chat with Umberto and wave greetings to his extended family. He continues
up the road. Where is he headed, anyway? Your eyes follow the cloud of
dust until it disappears behind the top row of houses hanging over the
edge of the bay and then reappears briefly, only to disappear again behind
a knoll. You see a propane truck winding its way up the hill, honking its
horn intermittently. 
A
big black and white truck with “Tony Sanchez” written on its doors lumbers
by, liquid sloshing from its rear as it too grinds its way up, bringing
water to the houses on the hill.
Unless you know
someone who has a casa in Rancho La Bufadora, or unless you’re a tough
sort who doesn’t mind camping in the dirt, you probably won’t experience
this side of La Buf first hand. You’ll just soak up the beauty, finish
your beer, snap a few pictures and climb back into your car or tour bus.
But—if curiosity gets the better of you, and if you start feeling a little
tingling in your soul—well, you may be well on your way to getting, as
we say in La Bufadora—“boofed.” That’s what happened to me a few
years ago. I was invited to stay in a rental house over Memorial Weekend.
As I ate a $1.40 breakfast on the patio of Los Gordos, I watched the scene
described above unfold before me. It was beautiful, peaceful, festive,
lonely, comforting and magical. My heart stirred, my eyes misted up and
in an inexplicable way, I felt I’d come home. Bingo! I was “boofed!”
My kids and I stayed
an extra day that trip. We came back again, again and again that summer.
I couldn’t stay away. Like a magnet, it kept drawing me back. La Bufadora
has a rawness, a remoteness that somehow sets it apart from the frenzied
and chaotic motion of Southern California. Being there relaxes me, right
down to the nitty, gritty nooks and crannies of my being. It takes
me back to an earlier, simpler time where a handshake sealed a deal and
people looked out for one other. It epitomizes the Baja I’d come to cherish
as a child—a Baja I couldn’t find anywhere else that wasn’t at least a
12 hour drive away! No wonder I feel homesick when I was away and no wonder
I keep coming back. No wonder my kids love it. It’s a few leagues beyond
The Discovery Channel—a true outback where they’ve learned first hand about
the natural world. Together we’ve hiked up mountains, down to deserted
beaches, snorkeled, ridden horses, kayaked, shopped at the mall and eaten
at every one of the restaurants dotting the roadside. My daughter is learning
to drive there. 
And it’s only two hours
south of the border. Go figure....
It’s changing,
yes. Lots of houses have electricity now, instead of just the solar lights
and candles we had before. It’s worth visiting, whether you stay for an
hour, a weekend, or buy a house and become a resident. Every season is
a delight—from the warm days of summer and fall, to the wild storms of
winter with their dramatic clouds, high surf and frequent grey whale sightings,
to the languid, vibrantly hued days of spring. Come see us. You won’t be
sorry....
© Ann Hazard, 1996. No part of this
article may be reprinted without permission.
This story is featured in Ann's newest book,
Agave
Sunsets.
First printed in the Discover Baja Newsletter,
July-August
1996 issue. Reprinted from The Baja Tourist Guide, June 2000 issue.
Also printed in Baja Traveler Magazine, 2001 edition. Blow Hole
photo by Jerry Snow.