Through Tinted Windows

500 Photos of Northern Baja

February 18 11:15 a.m.

66 °F, sunny and slightly windy

I rest in the backseat of the van as we cruise along the scenic roads of Baja. Nestled cozily, I drift in and out of sleep, awakening intermittently to chit-chat about car plates and Crunchwraps. I gaze through the van’s tinted windows, catching blurs of colorful storefronts as they blend into a dreamy mosaic. I snap photos and scribble down observations, determined to capture the beauty of Baja, determined to weave a compelling story.

We come to a stop at a red light. I peer out the window and in front of me stands a street vendor cutting coconuts. A vibrant stand of fresh fruit frames him perfectly for a beautiful photo. Instinctively, I raise my camera.

But the vendor looks up; his gaze almost seems to lock onto mine. He appears to be the same age as I am. I freeze, then I lower my camera. I debate whether to try again to take the photo, but before I can decide, the light turns green. We speed away.

We soon arrive at the Puerto Nuevo night market where we are greeted by endless rows of colorful candy stands and souvenir shops. Finding photos is easy. It’s a visual feast here. I make sure to capture the warm light streaming through the overhead tents, as well as the glimmering trinkets upon which it lands. But as we continue to make our way through the booths, I get that same feeling — there are eyes on me. I can’t shake this feeling, as though I’m intruding in some way.

Prior to this trip, I told my friends I’d be going to Mexico and they were delighted for me. They told me how Mexico is such a great time, how they remember it as one picturesque beachside promenade. Kayaking, snorkeling, jet skiing. It’ll be so much fun. It’s Mexico.

Needless to say, I told them we didn’t come for beaches or jet skis. We wanted an authentic experience. And in many ways, we got it. We entered Mexico precautioned to keep our belongings close, well-trained to walk everywhere with a buddy and not leave their sight. Yet still I wonder. Here I am, a college student on a four-day weekend retreat in a group of eight, photographing pretty architecture and pretty streets at a pretty market. Wearing brand new shoes and my favorite vintage sweatshirt.

Again, that feeling. I get the urge to put my camera away, but this time, I brush my thoughts aside. After all, it’s my job here to be capturing these moments. The more photos you take, the more you have to work with — and these are good photos.

Some hours go by, we see a beautiful lilac sunset over the coast, then we venture into a restaurant where I order Nutella crêpes. The waitress delivers our meals in shiny bowls, heaping portions and with raspberries on top. Then a little girl, no more than eight years old, approaches our table carrying a cardboard tray of De La Rosa Mazapan. She smiles and says something to us, which Montse translates: “In exchange for a few pesos, I will tell you a joke.”

I cannot look her in the eye.

It’s that feeling again. She just asked us for money because she knows we have it.

I came to Baja thinking I could craft a story about the local community’s way of life. Yet I spent the trip looking comfortably through tinted windows, pretending to be immersed. While the people just outside our van live their lives, and I’m supposed to keep my belongings close or else someone might take my camera. And soon, I’ll leave, maybe having gained a few photos for the magazine, a social media post, a trinket to show I was here. And now I eat Nutella crêpes while this young girl tells jokes for money.

I put my camera away. In this moment, my memory will be enough.

Words: William Fei

Photos: William Fei, Montserrat Urbina

Design: Khankamol Chor Kongrukgreatiyos