So, where do you start with the story of a road-trip? As we’ve been clocking up the kilometres in our little red hire-car (which we may well have to trade in thanks to a lousy battery which conveniently packed in on Saturday on a stretch of Mexico’s most dark, dangerous, bandit-ridden highways) we’ve seen some amazing scenery, enjoyed some ‘interesting’ stop-offs, and had, as you might imagine, a fair few scrapes. We’ve made it to Baja, though, and the road now stretches north through undulating, arid and cacti-peppered plains – with deserted beaches to explore on either the Pacific Coast to the west, or looking out onto the Sea of Cortes on the east. I’m so glad I decided to come here – it looks as if it really is going to be a place of astonishing natural beauty. Plus, the journey has, as I had hoped, met my need for some amusement and entertainment! So it feels like I made a good choice in coming – although, more than usual at present, life feels like a ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ book and I wonder what would have happened if I’d headed straight down to Belize….
Anyway, I made it back to Mexico City on Thursday, flying in on ‘Click Mexicana’ (Mexico’s answer to Easyjet or Ryanair) from a quiet little oil-rigging town called Ciudad Del Carmen, which I was thankfully able to reach quite easily by bus from Merida. The flight came in after dark and seeing the city below me from the window, strewn out in glittering light (a bit like a big jewelled scab I thought – which felt like quite an apt metaphor), I experienced a surge of excitement tempered with a warm kind of fondness that I realize I now have for the place. I had a sense of being sucked back into the vast umbilicus of a country that I just don’t know how I’m going to be able to disentangle myself from. I pushed those kinds of thoughts aside, though, knowing that I had at least another week to enjoy here in Mexico, and I focused on getting myself to the hostel near Insurgentes where I was due to meet Graeme, Steve and Jessica. On the metro, a scruffy kid was trying to sell CDs, his portable ghetto-blaster booming out all the tunes that I suddenly wanted to hear more than anything - simply because they matched my mood and were, by now, linked to my memories of Mexico City’s public transport. Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’, R.E.M.’s ‘Losing My Religion’, sentimental 80s power ballads like ‘Take My Breath Away’… If my purse hadn’t been locked away in the depths of my backpack I might have bought one. As it was, though, I just sat there for the journey smiling to myself, almost wanting to put my arms around the little guy who was selling them and hug him for having read me so right at that very moment.
I met up with Graeme and Steve that night in the slightly down at heel ‘B&B hostel’ - somewhere that seemed to be situated in the epicentre of everything slightly sordid about Mexico City (fetish clubs, tacky gay bars, transsexual ‘ladies’ of the night all within a stone’s throw of the door). Still, it was a good enough place to lay our heads for the night while we prepared ourselves for the journey ahead. Next morning I was introduced to Jessica – a friend of Graeme’s from the art school for kids in Oaxaca where he had been volunteering. Also up for the adventure, and originally from Connecticut in the States, Jessica is someone I soon felt I’d been mates with for ages. That’s what time spent on a road trip does, though, I guess. Spending the night together in a ‘sex motel’ in Mazatlan, using a slipper pinched from the aforementioned establishment as toilet paper on the roadside, and employing our feminine charms to get a guy at a roadside taco stall to jumpstart our car – these are all amongst the ‘bonding’ experiences that we have shared so far! More on them later though…
As with most other things in Mexico, the aspects of the road trip that should have been the simplest have invariably been the most tedious. Actually hiring the car on the first day was the initial challenge - and every day since seems to have presented us with another little ‘test’. Back on Friday, the corpulent and greasy haired Mexican on the front desk at Europcar denied all knowledge of our car-hire reservation and then tried to charge us a whole lot more than Graeme’s original quote. This led to a good few of hours of ‘fannying about’ (one of the many British expressions we educated Jessica on – and she’s taught us a couple of Yank ones in return). However, come midday it was sorted, and we were finally out on the ‘carretera’, vaguely heading east and optimistically estimating the driving time to Mazatlan, which is where we reckoned on getting a ferry to Baja.
Whereas I’d got a sense of Mexico’s vastness before simply as a result of some of my epic coach journeys, my experience of actually being behind the wheel of a car in Mexico has been quite different. Road signs for destinations rarely seem to dip below three figures (sometimes four) and, as you hug the curves on seemingly endless roads (trying to avoid potholes and ‘vibradores’ or speedbumps), you get a new perspective on the ever changing scenery in this massive country. With Jessica, Graeme and I sharing driving duties (Steve left his licence behind in Norwich), highlights of the first day were the hazy and distant illusion of Lago Patzcuaro as we traversed Michoacan, the flamingo pink sunset that even managed to make the highway through Guadalajara a thing of beauty, and the delicious meal of steak tacos that we wolfed down in a totally empty roadside restaurant in an utterly random nowhere town called Jala.
Determined to press on to the coast that first night we really romped through the kilometres after dinner with Mazatlan set in our sights (we knew if we got there we’d be able to continue on to the ferry on Saturday). It was something of a mirage, though (as many places on this trip have subsequently turned out to be!), remaining out of our reach until about 2.00am. When we finally saw a ‘Bienvenidos a Mazatlan’ sign ahead we wearily vowed to check into the first accommodation option that we came across. Little did we know this was going to be a seedy ‘pay-by-the-hour’ motel on the highway though! The joint seemed a bit shady but, with us all about to drop with tiredness, we decided to check in, especially as the price was right at M$200 (a tenner) per room per night ($270 if we’d wanted one with a jacuzzi – but we sadly figured we wouldn’t have had time to use it).
It was the first properly amusing event of the trip, and the small reserves of energy we still had were soon spent cracking up laughing when we looked around our cute little bungalow style porno-pads. Us girls were in one room, the boys in another, so I do stress that nothing untoward happened in the motel (I don’t think any of us would have had the energy!)! I’m not sure if the staff were surprised or relieved that our prime motivation for staying there was to actually sleep rather than have some kind of orgy. However, if we had wanted to, this would have been the place. Forget threesomes, each room had a bed big enough for 4 or 5. ‘Preservatifs’ and ‘lotiones lubricantes’ were available on room-service, and a tissue dispenser was drilled into the wall unsubtly close to the bedside. All I can say is that if any of you want to have a dirty weekend on the cheap then head off to Mazatlan!
That said, there were some nicer and more wholesome touches, like the complimentary slippers and shower-cap which Jessica and I pocketed - not realising at the time how handy the slippers would come in for sanitary purposes further down the line. The next morning we packed up the car and drove off – all I think feeling slightly incredulous at where we’d spent the night. The lurid porn we’d been confronted with when we’d turned the tellies on in our respective rooms provided a good conversational stimulus for the next leg of the journey!
Saturday was spent mainly in Mazatlan town itself as we discovered there was no ferry there that day, and that we’d have to drive up the coast for 3 more hours to reach a bizarrely named place called Topolobampo. This is where we were told we would be able to take a shorter ferry crossing to La Paz at 11pm. We decided we wanted to do the drive in daylight, having read in our guidebooks that we’d be going along highway 15 - through Mexico’s prime marijuana-growing territory, where bandits associated with the drug trade have been known to plague the roads. We therefore set off in the early afternoon, with me at the wheel, driving through the most impressive thick green jungle-like landscapes. Getting stuck behind slow moving lorries on the long winding roads soon began to set us back considerably though (Mexicans love to overtake on the bends but it wasn’t something I fancied attempting – especially on the other side of the road in an automatic, which is foolproof to drive, but not something I’m accustomed to). The banter we sustained on the journey staved off boredom however. ‘Mallet’s Mallet’ got resurrected on the Mexican highway - and daft, random but highly comical conversations germinated about misheard Bryan Adams song lyrics amongst other things! The hours ticked by, and rapidly nightfall was upon us…
Jessica and I (being weak-bladdered girls I suppose – and having just drunk a couple of beers that we bought when Graeme took over the driving) suddenly needed the loo as we passed through a place called Culiacan. We therefore stopped at a roadside taco stall, where the proprietor kindly told us from behind his sizzling grill that we were welcome to use the toilet in his house. This was functional and served its basic purpose, but it wasn’t very well-equipped – a place where the torn up ‘sex-slippers’, as we were fondly now calling them, came in handy again as loo-roll!
The boys seemed a bit impatient when we got back to the car, as I guess we had been dawdling a bit by stopping to buy a taco and chat to the man (it seemed only right having used his toilet). It was then, in this atypically tense moment, that Graeme twisted the key in the ignition to the heart-sink sound of a splutter - and then nothing. Our battery (which we’d been doubtful about from the start, but which our chubby and oily-bonced friend at Europcar had assured us was fully charged) was kaput. This was our ‘challenge’ for Saturday – and Jessica and I, feeling slightly responsible, were the first to have to try to overcome it. Jumping out of the car and back to the taco stand, we somewhat pulled the ‘damsels in distress’ card (there are times when it has to be done) and, luckily, within a matter of minutes, a heroic Mexican Dad piled his kids into his pick-up truck, pulled up alongside us, and gave us a jump-start. All of us were at this point playing a different part – Jessica chatting to the kids, Graeme at the wheel working the ignition, Steve helping with the jump-leads and avoiding the flying sparks, and me, standing rather awkwardly on the side-lines, crossing my fingers and instinctively making a praying gesture with my hands. We were in Mexico, after all, and I wondered if perhaps the Virgin of Guadalupe or some other Catholic saint would come and intervene in our roadside time of need?!
Mercifully, we were soon back on the road, safe from bandits and whatever else might have befallen us on the notorious highway 15. I think we all felt a bit humbled after that. You can get so cynical in a place like this, thinking that every moustachioed Mexican is out to get you, or screw you over. Our experience showed us that this really isn’t necessarily the case, even in the most infamously rough areas. We insisted on pressing a M$50 note into the hand of the jump-lead superstar as we left, even though he kept trying to reject it. As we drove away we were left with a feeling of warmth as we imagined how the kids would relish the excitement of their Dad having ‘saved the day’ for a novelty bunch of travellers like ourselves.
Finally arriving at the port of Topolobampo in time for the ferry bought sighs of relief all round. There was another inevitable round of tedium and tardiness when it came to getting ourselves and our car booked onto it though. Now December is here, Christmas is on the horizon for Mexicans, and car hire offices and ferry ticket booking booths are full of inflatable Santas which seem to impede proceedings even more. When we at last got our tickets, and had our car nosed around by sniffer dogs and heavily armed guards, we drove onto the clanking car deck of the ferry and faced the final hurdle of the day – having to reverse down a practically vertical ramp into the bowels of the boat, the narrow little metal trapdoor steaming in the heat, and looking not unlike the jaws of hell (as I rather exaggeratedly stated) It was still Graeme at the wheel at this point, and I don’t think any of us envied him at all. Eventually, picking up on our terror and ineptness at such vehicle manoeuvres, a sweaty Mexican dockworker in orange overalls came and stuck his hand in through the window to help us out with the steering. This was all done very matter-of-factly – he wasn’t condescending to us for finding it tricky, but his face and demeanour seemed to make out that being made to reverse down a precarious ravine in a rusty old vessel like ‘The Chihuahua Star’ was nothing untoward in his realm.
Baja Ferries (or should I say, the Chihuahua Star) – reminded me of ferry trips over from Portsmouth to Cherbourg or Le Havre on holiday as a kid. There was a cheesy disco, which we couldn’t quite face, endlessly looping Mel Gibson action films in lounges with reclining chairs (where we thankfully managed to get a bit of kip), more Santas in various degrees of deflation festooned around the decks, and a loud tannoy announcement inviting us every 5 minutes into a cafeteria with reheated and overpriced foods dished up from metallic trays. Such ferries seem to have universal characteristics the world over but I don’t want to seem churlish in describing them – the view on this particular journey as we approached Baja and I walked around the deck at dawn was so tranquil and inviting. Magnificent mauve-ish mountains and the stillest blue waters I have seen in a long time made it reminiscent of Scottish lochs or Scandinavian ffjords – only with the slightly incongruous addition of cacti.
Our estimated time of arrival in La Paz was 6.00am, but in true Mexican style we arrived at about 9.00am – only to have to grind slowly along a long dusty track before being released from the port area. More drug searches, more armed ‘action-men’ rifling through everyone’s stuff – an hour and a half later it was another ‘laugh or cry’ situation as we continued to bake in our car, cursing Mexican bureaucracy. Graeme and I decided to take the laugh option - getting out of the car to do some yoga stretches, whilst making the most of the sound-system of a truck queuing up beside us (our rubbish hire car’s stereo didn’t work so even this guy’s early 90s techno was music to our ears). Then, after a cursory prod about in our boot (the bizarre and annoying thing is that they never really check thoroughly), the military men came to the conclusion that we still didn’t have any drugs in our car, and they let us through.
We pretty much floored it up to La Paz to vent our frustrations about the delay and the coastline began to expand before us. Soon we were winding along the sugary blancmange pink malecon, past statues of dolphins and mermaids until we wove up a side-street to ‘Pension California’. Not quite up to the standards of the sex-motel (which has become the unsurpassable benchmark of our accommodation now!) this yellow and blue concrete hippy (or ‘rainbow people’ as they’re called here) hang-out was as good a place as any to shore up for the night. That’s where I’m typing up this first instalment of the road-trip now, just lounging about in the courtyard, having spent some time on the beach and having lunched on the most delicious (and dirt cheap) fried fish tacos from a stand on the street.
Tomorrow I think we’re going to take it a bit easier and work our way up the coast at a more leisurely pace. Who knows though – I kind of get the feeling this trip will take its shape and direction as we go along. Looking at our timescales (the others have to get the car back to Mexico City by next Friday and I want to be over on the mainland, doing the Copper Canyon railway and en-route to Monterrey, by Thursday), I’m not sure we’re going to fit in ‘TJ’ (Tijuana) or the wine regions further up Baja as we’d originally planned. Nevermind, Tijuana has a reputation for being quite sleazy and riddled by drug-crime (and I think we’ve all already had enough of that), and as for wine, well I guess I’ll get to sample plenty of that in Argentina and Chile, so I can’t complain. If we let ourselves off the hook a bit in terms of our planning I’m sure we’ll do well just to make the most of what is around us. So far it’s definitely so good though…
|  | 
|
