Back in Baja: Returned, but not repeated.

And so I returned to the place where I once got stuck. Not stranded in any dramatic sense, but quietly suspended—caught in a moment of my life where forward motion slowed and self-trust was still forming. This place carries history for me. It holds the memory of the hostel chapter, the Salami saga, and a version of myself that tolerated uncertainty far longer than it should have, that tried to be flexible when firmness was required, and that blurred lines in the hope that clarity would arrive later. On the surface, very little had changed. The roads still curved the same way. The heat carried the same weight. The rhythm of life moved with familiar pauses and surges. Even some of the characters felt eerily similar. But beneath all of that familiarity was a crucial difference: I had changed.

Returning has a way of stripping away illusion. Growth feels convincing when you’re moving forward into new territory, but it is only truly tested when you circle back. Familiar places don’t allow you to hide from who you’ve been. They quietly present the same patterns, the same energy, the same invitations to repeat old behaviours, and wait to see what you do. This time, I noticed how quickly I recognised situations that once would have pulled me in. The tolerance I used to have for drama, emotional noise, blurred accountability, and chaotic personalities simply wasn’t there anymore. There was no anger, no superiority—just a calm refusal to engage. A sense that my time, focus, and energy now had a cost attached to them.

Goodbye drama queens. Not as an insult, but as a boundary.

The return itself was practical rather than poetic. Off the plane and straight into a hostel. Not driven by romance or spontaneity, but by logistics. I needed a few days to land, recalibrate, and wait for a friend to organise herself so I could look after her home and dogs for a month. In my head, it made sense. It felt like a sensible gateway back into Baja Sur—a temporary holding pattern that would allow me to get grounded before moving forward. A bridge between arrival and stability.

But life rarely respects our neat timelines.

After a few days, the cracks began to show. Not in explosive ways, but in the quieter signals that are easier to ignore if you’re not paying attention. Misaligned expectations. Subtle friction. Energy that didn’t quite sit right. Old me would have negotiated with myself, justified discomfort, or stayed longer than necessary out of politeness or hope. This time, I listened. The indifferences were clear, and instead of forcing something that didn’t fit, I stepped away. It meant returning briefly to uncertainty—back to square one—but without panic or self-doubt.

And in truth, that reset was a gift.

It led me back to Todos Santos and to a month at Baljalla, which deserves clarity because not all work, effort, or exchange carries the same weight. My work exchange at Baljalla was genuinely good. It was balanced, respectful, and grounding. It allowed me to reconnect with a place I love deeply—not as someone passing through, but as someone contributing, participating, and slowing down enough to feel the land again. There was rhythm in the days, purpose without pressure, and a quiet sense of belonging that reminded me why Baja holds such a strong place in my life.

Alongside that, I took on paid work in Cerritos, and that experience stood in sharp contrast. On paper, it looked like a solid opportunity. In reality, it was draining and hollow. The work demanded output but offered no meaning, no resonance, no sense of alignment. Every day confirmed what my intuition had flagged early on. In the past, I might have endured it longer, convincing myself that discomfort was simply part of the process. This time, I didn’t confuse endurance with progress. I walked away without guilt, knowing that saying no was not failure—it was discernment.

Baljalla, meanwhile, gave me space. Real space. Space to think without urgency. Space to reassess direction without external pressure. Space to reconnect with the land I love, not romantically, but realistically. It wasn’t part of the original plan, but it became an anchor—a place where I could stabilise, breathe, and remember what alignment actually feels like when it’s present.

From there, life completed another quiet circle. I looked after a very good friend’s property, a situation rooted in trust, respect, and calm. It may seem like a small detail, but that period mattered deeply. It reminded me how different life feels when expectations are clean and energy is uncomplicated. There was no performance required, no emotional negotiation. Just responsibility, care, and mutual respect. It was during this time that I made a deliberate decision to move toward La Paz—not impulsively, but with clarity.

I applied for hostel volunteering positions, carrying a reasonable plan in my head: a month to find work, bring in some cash, and build connections. Then reality adjusted the timeline without warning. I was accepted, only to be told I had two weeks. Just like that, the imagined runway disappeared. For a moment, the old sense of pressure knocked—familiar, insistent, testing whether I would fall back into urgency.

But I didn’t spiral. I didn’t scramble. I stayed open.

And somehow, through timing, intuition, and trust, I found my way to La Ribera.

Now I’m staying at Buena Fortuna, living simply in a tent, and it feels like progress in its purest form. There is peace here—real peace, not the kind that needs convincing. It’s a small town, slow and grounded, where days unfold without noise or spectacle. The pace gives time back. Time to think clearly. Time to create without interruption. Time to be present with the work and with myself.

I’m currently building a mini documentary here, not just capturing images, but telling a story that feels alive and meaningful. I’ve naturally stepped into the role of photographer as well, and we’re now shaping a genuine collaboration to use my work—one that feels shared rather than transactional. At the same time, I’m learning about permaculture, about working with the land instead of against it, about cycles, patience, and respect for natural systems. There’s something deeply grounding about reconnecting with the earth and the people who live in rhythm with it.

And just as importantly, there is space for me. Space to keep writing. To keep filming. To keep building. To sit quietly when needed. To move forward without interference or emotional static.

This return hasn’t been about correcting the past or proving anything to anyone else. It’s been about observing how I now move through familiar territory with a different internal compass. Boundaries are clearer. Decisions are cleaner. Alignment is no longer negotiable. The landscape may resemble earlier chapters, but the way I walk through it has changed entirely.

For the first time in a long while, everything feels constructive. Intentional. Rooted. Open.

I’m not stuck this time.I’m moving forward—calmly, deliberately, and exactly where I need to be.

Hope you enjoyed the update of my life on a roller coaster.

Thanks for tuning in.

Paul

No Travel No Life®