6/28/02
7:07 pm
We have left San Felipe and are driving with 3 shocks to our next destination. Yes, yes we had a another breakdown. Shortly before, I was pleasantly cruising down the dirt road to Punta Final , enjoying the thought of a Dos Esquis beer by the beach. I was just getting good at maneuvering and Anatole was just starting to relax with my off roading skills. Then we smelled it. Something stinky.....something burning. I looked out in front of me and saw a ominous column of smoke rising from the hood. I quickly put on the brakes and checked the dash-hmmmmm...... it didn’t say we were overheating. Anatole told me to leave the engine running as he flipped the hood. “Hmmmmm.......” he repeated searching for the problem. I moseyed on over to see if I could offer any assistance, not too worried. Don’t all cars smoke from time to time? Then I saw flickering flames of red and orange lighting up the engine cavity. Fire! Fuego! I ran to turn off the car and threw Anatole the fire extinguisher. He quickly put out the flames and I quickly thanked the lord that he was foresighted enough to purchase such a lifesaver.
An hour of Land Rover disassembly provided us with one melted shock...no that doesn’t do it justice...one smoldering, partially liquefied, stinky shock, one very dirty Frenchman and one fabulous lunch (I am much better with food creation than I am car reparation so I choose my contribution accordingly). In retrospect, I secretly think that Anatole enjoys these little emergency breakdowns. He was happy as a clam under the car, covered in grease. Who cared if we were delayed from our beach destination and stuck outside in the middle of a dusty road under the 110 degree sun? In Anatole’s mind, breakdowns were a road trip necessity. A challenge to overcome, a way to be a man, and most importantly good material for story swapping at the next guy’s night out.
I, on the other had, couldn’t believe in. We were only on Mexico day 3 and we had endured 2 flat tires, 6 hours lost in the desert, and one flaming car. Today we are off-roading missing one shock. Tomorrow must be enraged mountain lion day,. I am definitely enjoying the experience but I think my list of events that the hypothetical couple must go through is getting longer........
6/27/02
6:18 pm
Sometimes life rewards one’s past hardships. We woke up this morning with a beach to ourselves at Campo Punto Bufeo. Waking up to the rising sun 20 feet away from the lapping tide is a true wonder. On my way to take a morning swim, I noticed the sand moving. Could the earth be moving beneath my very feet? Was it a little Baja earthquake ? A closer look showed that it was not the earth itself but hundreds of little pink crabs. My movement frightened them and the were scuttling sideways across the sand looking for a hole to burrow themselves into. Each crab had only one large hot pink claw that it held in front of it like a shield . I wished I were 2 centimeters tall so I could joust with it. Further down the shore were long billed curlews-funny birds with long bills (a.k.a. utensils). They seemed delighted with the new abundance of Crab Louise I had just scarred down into the accessible sand.
Missing one shock and intent to keep the other 3, we drove slowly to Guerro Negro making lots of pit stops. Our first was at Punta Final-capital of flying fish. Intent to see them up close I used the snorkeling mast and pretended I was a baja mermaid looking for treasures under the sea. In addition to flying fish, I also discovered Parrot Fish, Moorish Idols, and the less interesting sardines. Anatole also tried his hand at snorkeling although I don’t known if he would appreciate be likened to a mermaid...merman perhaps? Nevermind.....I digress.
Another stop was at Coco’s Corner. Coco was an elderly man who decided not to go to civilization-but rather let it come to him. For 11 years he had lived alone in the middle of the desert-offering beer, snacks, wound cleansing, tire changing, and overall good conversation to anyone who happened to be passing by The little shack was plastered with mementos from the outside world-business cards from California, Texas, and Germany. On another wall were photos –one with Coco himself dressing a wound of a driver’s behind from the last Baja 1000 off road race.
However, Coco was not there when we arrived. Guillermo, a small man from San Felipe, was watching the hut as Coco took his first vacation in a very long time. Guillermo had only met Coco last January-when he stopped by the hut for a refreshment after a long bike ride down Baja’s eastern coast. Guillermo, or “Willie” as he preferred to be called, was a junior Coco. He had no attachments “No house, no family, no nada-just me and my bicycle.” He smiled and I noticed two of his upper front teeth were missing. Willie told us of his travels along Baja’s coast on his bicycle. He understood both our love and fear of the Baja’s small rocky roads as finds the regular highway much too predictable and boring for his bicycle trips. But then again-a bike cannot catch on fire.
6/28/02
12:10 pm
We are in Guerro Negro getting the shock repaired. We arrived very late last night and stayed at a $10 hotel- Motel Gomez. The motel came complete with swayback beds, cold yellow water, and spiders in the corner. Ahhh.....the true Mexican experience! Although I insisted we use our own bedding, I was still delighted by the shabbiness of the place. Funny how shabby is considered authentic and quaint in Mexcio-where it is considered unforgivably disgusting in the US.
Crossing into Baja Sur from Baja Norte last night gave us a sense of accomplishment in our journey. Or perhaps that’s because the Mexicans made such a big deal of it. First we had to go to a military checkpoint. They were supposed to conduct a thorough inspection of our belongings to make sure we weren’t immigrating in any illegal fruit from the north. We promptly hid the nectarines.
A boy can to the window and instructed us. “Lee” he said. Huh? “Lee!” He repeated. Anatole and I looked at each other. What in the world was “Lee?” Was it some command to get out of the car or was it a warning that a poisonous baja fruitfly had emerged from the nectarine sack and was about to attack us? “Lee. Lee. Lee. Three more times. I grabbed my dictionary. Exasperated he finally let out the correct word in Spanish “Luz!” Oh...lights! We quickly turned the interior lights on so they could check our suspicious looking items. Poor boy-seeing our license plate was American he made an attempt to speak English to us. I remembered the times I had proudly carried on in Spanish only to have my conversation partner (usually an unsuspecting shopkeeper) uninterestedly answer me in English.
After one look at our heaps of boxes, jerry cans, duffel bags, and stinky garbage bags piled in the back, the military boys knew they were defeated. The all spoke rapidly in Spanish and I am sure they were agreeing it really wasn’t worth looking through our piles for a few pieces of fruit. However as compensation for a puny inspection they made us pass through the “spray zone.” A man in a ridiculous looking outfit (something between a bee keeper and an astronaut) came out and sprayed our tires with pesticide. Don’t ask me why they felt this was so important. They were obviously paranoid that mango eating fruit flies were hitchhiking their way to the south with us. We even were forced to pay 10 pesos for the procedure.
As if the military inspection and $10 motel wasn’t enough to endure, we had a very difficult time trying to repair the melted shock. One of our first stops was at a tire shop/mechanic and a worker told us that they while they couldn’t help with our melted shock he could help with our llena disinflada-flat tire. No way! Again??!! We checked the car. Sure enough, another one. Flat numero 3.
After the tire was fixed we continued on the quest for the Land Rover shock. After visiting every auto repair store in the town, we realized that no one here carried Land Rover parts. In fact no one had ever heard of Land Rover. Anatole quickly became fluent in “No, its not a Toyota!” Luckily Mexican mechanics are much more resourceful than American ones. One friendly man offered to solder the melted Land Rover shock ends to a new shock centerpiece. What a great idea! While the shock was being transformed we skipped over to the large taco stand on the other side of the street where fresh tortillas and 4 types of salsa awaited us. Here in Mexico we are learning that any bad situation can be turned into a good one.
6/29/02
Time-who cares
Our destination: Bahía Conceptión. For 5 years Anatole has been dreaming about this very beach were we spent the night-Punta Perla. 5 years ago he passed by this paradise with his brother Honoré and always swore he would return to stay the night and swim in the warm waters. Return he did-with a beautiful Baja babe (ahem-that’s me) at his side. Our little teal tent is staked into an isthmus. We have the Sea of Cortez bordering two sides of us and little islands floating as far as the eye can see. The upper hills are painted in red and burgundy. Vivid green Cardón cactus stick up from the lower hills contrasting greatly with the red rock underneath and above them. The water is different shades of turquoise and blue and clear enough to display striped fishes, orange crabs, and light green algae at its bottom.
I sit 2 feet away from the lapping tide wearing only a hat on my head. I look out and see Anatole in the middle of our bay casting line out into the saltwater hoping to catch our lunch. Could anything be more perfect? Someone once told me that the best things in life aren’t things. Embraced by simplicity and beauty I couldn’t agree more.
Time-later?
Anatole never did catch a fish which meant we had to be satisfied with our endless dinner of canned corn and tuna salad. As far as beverages went, we did have a new treat to try out. In Mulegé we decided to enter the first (and last) liqueur store of our journey. I wanted to try something new. I scanned the shelves. Tequila tequila tequila.....Sangarita. Ohhh...Sangarita- what with this? I picked up the rosy red bottle and asked the saleslady if it was any good. Sweet perhaps? Sí, como Sangria.” Oh Sangria....I love Sangria!
That night Anatole poured me the honorary first glass. I raised my glass to him a took a sip. Blaaaaah!!! Turned out Sangarita was a mixture of tomato juice, pepper, clam juice, sugar and tequila. Ick!
I remembered my advice about simplicity and decided that for the rest of the trip I would stick to cheap beer.
6/30/02
On a road trip more time is spent arranging potty breaks than one might think. Since so much time has been dedicated to peeing it is high time I write about it. First of all, it is not fair that men have it so easy. All they have to do is take a few steps away from the road, turn their back on the world, and do their business. Like many things in life, it is not nearly so easy for a woman. If we just walked a few steps away, turned around and did our business we would be exposing our rear ends to the rest of the road travelers-our white buns shining like a beacon to other cars along their way.
No-women must journey out further, hike though rough shrubbery and locate a nice secluded spot where our bottom is protected. And not only must the spot be sheltered, but the ground below must be completely flat too. A man can easily move his feet around should the need arise-but when you are squatting down, pants tied around your ankles like handcuffs-you can do nothing as the pees starts to drift downward toward your precious shoes.
With this knowledge in mind I journeyed out to go peeing for the thousandth time in the wilderness. We were on our way the oasis of La Purísima and the landscape was hot, dry, and full of cactus. I gingerly made my way over to a little pee pee haven. Or so I thought. It was also a insect haven. One arm had to swat large flying back things away with the other was extended outright for balance. Half way through peeing I noticed the terrible- the pee was drifting downhill toward my shoe. Darn. I shuffled backward. But the pee tricked faster toward my right teva sandal. I moved over the side, to the back, to the side, did the hokey pokey and turned myself around and then .....OUCH! A big cactus needle had stuck itself right in my white butt. I yelped, pulled it out, and limped back to the car. I could have sworn it was poisonous and my rear end was inflamed with a deadly disease, but after hearing Anatole’s laughter I realized it was more my pride that was hurt than anything.
Thank goodness La Purísima was so beautiful that I could forget the painful saga. La Purísima was an Eden in the rocks. We had driven 3 hours just to see this little village on a road so bad we were forced to drive. 9.4 miles per hour. It was truly paradise. Palm trees, date trees, and mango trees were everywhere. Crystal blue water and brightly painted orange and pink houses completed the color palette. We didn’t stay long-it was just enough to be there. Strange how driving 3 hours, risking rattlesnakes, mountain lions and cactus needles, just to spend 10 minutes in a scenic place made perfect sense to us.
On the way out of the desert and on toward Loreto we decided to stop at a bakery. We hadn’t really tried out the Mexican sweets and after a long day of driving were excited to do so. We chose a few varieties (okay, okay, more than a few-Anatole told me my eyes were definitely bigger tan my stomach) but I didn’t want to miss out on any of the delectable creations. As soon as we were out of the shop I broke into the bag. I couldn’t wait to try a Mexican pasty.
Blah! The dry tasteless dough was filled with a bright yellow paste with the consistency of jellyfish and flavor of anti-acid pills. A pastry version of the Sangarita. Determined to satisfy my sweet tooth, I pulled out the second pastry and broke of a piece. Oh no-it had the same filling too. Turns out every single pasty we purchased was a slightly different version of the same thing. Dry bread and sickly sweet yellow jelly. Lesson learned-stick to tacos for eating and beer for drinking.
7/1/02
10:30 am
To me, Loreto was a San Tropez of Baja. We succumbed to tourist pleasures and stayed the night in nice bed and breakfast on the beach. Our place was pure luxury-we had a fan in our room, a hammock outside and an innkeeper who would do anything to please us. We were the only guests staying the night. La Señora recommended that we try Chili Willies for dinner. We thought she was offering us some homemade chile from her kitchen when she graciously handed us a coupon for a buy/one get one free margarita at Chili Willie’s beachfront restaurant. Not wanting to pass up a deal, we went to Chili Willies for a sunset dinner. The Chile Relleños, Fried Fish and our 2 for 1 margaritas that were a nice change from the cheap beer, Sangarita and canned salad.
Loreto is definitely a young people’s place. Boys drove cars back and forth down the main road, their stereo blasting cheesy music, hoping to attract some hot babes. The girls had somehow contorted their bodies and squeezed themselves into miniscule clothing hoping it would attract one of the boys in a big loud truck. After dinner Anatole and I wanted to get into the Loreto spirit and act the part. We rolled down the windows in the Land Rover and blasted Manu Chau. Up and back down the 200 foot street. I danced in the car and Anatole drove at night with his sunglasses on. Something wasn’t working for us though and we decided to call it quits after two rounds. We hadn’t taken a shower in three days and perhaps it was cramping our style.
7/2-02
10 am
I knew we shouldn’t have gone back to say goodbye. What was meant to be 2 seconds or hand shaking turned out to be another 20 minutes of Bob’s crazy stories.
This time it was shadow people and tunnelers-talking particles of matter that whiz by your ear. Every time you think ya hear somthin’ strange, well that’s a tunneler. “ says Bob. ‘People have photographed ‘em, ya know!!”
Last night Bob kept us up till one am with his twilight zone stories. It all started when Bob son, Enrique, came to our camp site in San Ignacio and wanted us to play dominos with himself and a young German girl Franchesca. We were tired but we agreed. Little did we know we were getting ourselves into a lot more than a simple domino game.
Enrique and his father were Sacramento transplants who had been living in the campground of San Ignacio for 2 months. They were living like desert kings and had a little living area all set up- makeshift kitchenette, a laundry room, and living room table-all amid palm trees and mosquitoes. We started playing dominoes in the center of their little villa -when we heard a strange voice coming from the tent asking us question after question. Enriques’ father-Bob, just couldn’t stay quietly in the tent through the game while he knew two new conversation victims were sitting outside. He finally came outside into our headlamp light. We were easier prey to his stories while we were all visible. Like any story predator, he had to tease us with small talk before he could get to the main topic. The conversation tide changed when then he asked Anatole his “engineer technical opinion” of UFOs. Anatole didn’t know he was about to open up a VERY large can of worms.
The World According to Bob
Bob’s first ET experience happened in the 60’s in a VW bus. On a road trip down south he saw his first UFO and heard strange noises outside his VW bus window. Sounded like more than just a “road” trip if you asked me but my time spent locked in a car with Anatole had taught me the art of diplomacy.
“Now you know I have a technical background myself...but how could all these UFO sightings be false? when so many everyday people that find these things? You may think it’s just stuff all those crazy Oregon liberals buy into but it is linked to Christianity as well.” We noted his distaste for crazy Oregon liberals and hastily reminded him that Anatole was French and I grew up in NY.
One theory Bob taught us about was the hollow earth theory-perhaps hell is on-or in-earth after all. Bob’s best evidence was the story of Mel’s well. Mel, a simple person in central Oregon (Anatole and I are proud to be living in such a alien supportive state) had a well on his property that you could through anything into-garbage, old fridges, cows, and you would never hear it touch the bottom. One day Mel’s dog fell in the well. A few days later Mel found it on the street glowing. Bob concluded Mel’s well was a passageway to the Hollow earth’s core.
Another theory that Bob had faithfully tested out many times was that of Reverse Speech. Apparently if you tape any conversation and play it backward you can hear what people REALLY mean instead of the diplomatic words they use in “forward speech.” Bob claimed that the best reverse speech episodes occurred during the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal. I remain dubious but if reverse speech really works you can bet that Anatole will be taping me all the time-just as will many other men tape their girlfriends/sisters/ wives. Finally the mystery of what women really mean by “nothing is wrong” will be resolved! I have a hidden motive to prove that no such thing exists.
Franchesca had heard these stories before so she just nodded and smiled. Anatole and I shook our heads and laughed. Franchesca looked tired. The night before Bob had tried to covert her on the spot -in the campground of San Ignacio right next to the stank river and amidst the braying of burros. We still aren’t sure if she was being converted to some form of Christianity or some membership of ABA Alien Believer Anonymous.
The next morning we discovered that Franchesca was headed up north-she had been traveling for 4 months-by boat, bus, feet, whichever was available. We were more than happy to offer her a lift wit us-provided she could put up with Anatole’s French driving and strange humor and my tendency to ride in the car with my dirty feet out the windows.
She said she wanted to go with us to save on time and perhaps see a few more things that would have been made available by bus. I am sure that escaping Bob was also a factor-although none of us admitted it.
What she didn’t know is that driving with us would take much longer than a bus. This was due to two things. We prefer bad old dirt roads to well paved ones. Every time we see an interesting cactus against a beautiful backdrop, we stop the car to get out and take a picture. Keep in mind that there are 150 species of cactus in Baja and probably 1,000 different types of beautiful backdrops. You do the calculation.
On the way north to Bahía de los Ángeles we stopped and Misión de San Borja. As soon as we approached the mission a small boy, around 9 or 10, approached us with a little book of pictures and a paper that said.
“On are at the Misión de San Borja...and also on Jose’s property. Jose’s children can give you a tour of the San Borja mission, show you the robes that old priests wore, take you to see the original adobe walls of the mission, and up the staircase to the mission roof. If you want to see the ancient Indian painting Jose’s children can take you to see them too. Only a mere 30 min away are the great Tinajitas cave paintings. All donations for the services of Jose’s children will be appreciated.”
I highly doubted that this smirking 10 year old would really be able to show us anything that we couldn’t find for ourselves in the mission but since we were going to see the mission and the paintings anyway-may as well have a guide. Of course Henry, as he was called, didn’t seem to know very much history, or care, about the place.
After seeing the mission and hearing Henry’s charming vaca calls (he really liked imitating cows-obviously a sign that he needed more friends) we decided to see the paintings. Henry got into the car and sat right above the gear shift between Anatole and myself. Franchesa was in the back. What a sight we were. 4 dirty people from 4 different countries crammed into the same car. When I asked Henry how Anatole drove compared to other drivers-rapido, normal o despacio- Henry answered normal. This annoyed Anatole and he sped down the bumpy road much to much to my concern (I was thinking about the tires) and Henry’s glee.
After seeing the paintings we left Henry with 120 pesos, a bag full of clothes and one squirt gun. The squirt gun was the hardest for me to part with. Henry had been playing with it while riding with us in the car. When Anatole suggested we give it up I had to hold it one last time and relinquish my desire to terrorize (or refresh depending on the temperature and Anatole’s sense of humor) him with little droplets of water.
7/3/02
We spent the night in windy Bahía de los Ángeles-although one of the most scenic spots on our journey it was also one of the worst nights. The night was hot-102 degrees and seemed to encourage a sand thunderstorm. The terrible wind howled though the palapas like a tortured animal. Sand sprayed into our bed and found it way into our ears and between our toes. I tossed and turned and had terrible dreams of kayaking among sharks and being alone in the hot desert with only Sangarita to drink.
The morning was much more pleasant-the water was cool and clear-perfect for snorkeling. We happened to be camping at a sea turtle study site so the facilities were better than most and the people friendly and very ecologically minded. We took a short stroll before heading off and saw stingrays skimming the sea’s surface, sea lions doing somersaults in the water, and a very friendly pelican eager to make our acquaintance.
After leaving Bahía de los Ángeles with a intent to return another time, we dropped of Franchesca at San Quitín. We couldn’t really tell if she was happy to leave our bad jokes and stinky feet or if she missed our eccentric company. Although it was nice to be two-it was sad to see her go-it meant our road trip was nearing its close. We headed up north alone to La Buchana to spend the night.
7/4/04
Leaving La Buchana we did it again. Que lastima! A forth flat tire. My cheerleading days are long over. Anatole and I are an expert tire changing team-I think we did it in 8 minutes flat. Perhaps the tire was destroyed in our attempts to quickly leave La Buchana. We had driven to our campsite there at night and hoped to have found the best spot available-close enough to the ocean to hears the Pacific’s waves, but a far enough from the sand to keep our ears clean in case the wind should pick up. Bahía de los Ángeles had scarred us. When we woke up we saw we were far from paradise. I looked at the ground-little piles of poop were everywhere. We had camped in a cow field. Then we heard the lovely sound of 4 wheelers, dogs barking, and loud stereos coming from the beach. Americanos. We were close to the border.
7/5/02
Welcome to the USA. How strange to be on a 4 lane highway after hundreds of hours of single lane unpaved ungraded roads. We weren’t worried about flat tires or shocks or running out of gas. It felt like we were cheating somehow. We had our choice of 47 radio stations and 7 –11s every mile. Try hard as we might there was no way we could perish northbound on I-5.
Leaving Ensenada was hard. It was admitting that our vacation was over. We took the tourist tour of the shops, bartered with the Mexicans and ate one last fish taco ordering in perfect Spanish.
Just as we were nearing the car, heads hung low, Anatole pointed to a restaurant. “Heidi-we need one last margarita!” Although it paled in comparison with the authentic one we had the night before at the infamous “Hussong’s Cantina,” we savored these drinks like no others on the trip. Just like slowly reading the last part of a great adventure novel, we slowly sipped our drinks-not wanting the journey to end. All that was left now was large highways, McDonalds and Elimidate episodes.
7/8/02
We are a few hours from Portland. We have watched the scenery metamorphosis again and again. We have gone through so much together-car problems, indigestion, and bad UFO stories. Even with stubble, peeling skin and stench, I can honestly say that we still find each other attractive. As long as we live in Baja, Mexico I feel confident that we can spend the rest of our lives together.
After a small argument about not having anything to argue about, I realize we have fully made the transition back into the USA and its reality. In Ashland we enjoyed some pastries at an American Bakery. I must admit that some things ARE better here after all. We are now used to the well maintained highway and don’t even think about stopping to snap a photo or pee in the woods. We are back in America for better or worse.
As I look back on our trip and reread my words I realize I have not written near enough. I never talked about the mission of Mulugé nor the slums of Tijuana. I didn’t capture our best meal in Bahía Conceptión where American expats supplied fresh fish to be prepared by the locals. I didn’t write about the drifts in conversations from the tense to the romantic to the contemplative. I also didn’t fully describe the different varieties of salsa at the taco stands nor the emotions felt when seeing street kids trying to sell gum to make a living.
But as this trip was a two week trip-a mere taste of what Baja has to offer. Thus, this the travelogue is a mere taste of our journey. To fully experience Baja you will have to travel there yourself. Buenos Suertes!
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