Sitting in a cafe in
Guerro Negro, decompressing from a particularly gruelling day yesterday... It's still in the morning coolness and sprinkling a bit of rain, so I think this is a good time to update.
I´ve been actively keeping a journal for the trip. Not really sure why, but its been one of my favourite things to do on the trip. So, rather than sit here and try to remember what we´ve been up to and recap, I´ve decided that since I'd probably want to type it in sometime anyway, I'd just let you read it now anyway. It´s very long. Sorry. You don't have to read it. Just
scan the pictures maybe?
The entries are in chronological order, so read this post from top to bottom. And bare with me on the spelling and typos -- mexi-keyboards confuse me.
(Oh yeah -- I think I've burst my eardrum again. It's oozing smelly pus. Any suggestions? I've been using some drops a pharmacist gave me, but through our mixed Spanglish I'm not sure she could even tell what was bothering me...)
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Friday June 1, 2007 - The Baja 500Early in the evening (9ish?) in some guarded RV resort compound just south of downtown Ensenada, near Estero Beach -- out where it turns from tourist trap to depressing third-world shantytown. We hung out in the hottub for a while with some Baja500 racers, sipping beer. Now I'm feeling pretty cut, funny how hottubs do that to you. Maybe its just because it was such a long, exhausting day. Maybe I'll make a quick entry here, then go party some more.
It's been quite the day... My planned 5am border crossing turned into more like 11am, after several last-minute stops by us and the other VW bus-gang. Insurance, water, breakfast (at the McDonalds in the WalMart we slept at, mmmmm), etc.
After mucho preparation and anxiety, the border crossing into Mexico was anti-climatic. Actually, I missed it entirely -- I was nervously clutching my passport, Annie was frantically digging for hers (the previous 146 times I'd asked her she knew exactly where it was), and the border guard was standing on a picnic table waving to us. I thought he was directing traffic.
It wasn't until we started navigating the confusing streets of Otay (a Tijuana suburb, i think) that the thought ocurred to me that we we already in Mexico -- having missed the stop at Immigration to get our required FM-T tourist permits. Jesus.
10 minutes later, Brian and I found ourselves in an office (him filming on the video camera) as I tried asking in fragmented Spanglish where the hell we could get our permits. Nothing but blank stares. As we turned around to leave I pointed to a sign on the door that read, "Jale." I really doubt that translates to "Jail," but it felt like a bad omen.
Out in the alley a man told us we'd have to return to the border and find the Immigration office. Which we did, without incident, excepting the fact that returning to the border meant waiting for over an hour in the northbound (ie, back to San Diego) lane. Not good.
By mid-afternoon we had our permits and got the caravan headed south, only to get completely and thoroughly lost. Totally lost, in Tijuana -- I think.
We drove in confused circles for what seemed like hours, and may have been more. I was sweating -- it was hot, and stressful. The traffic was totally unlike anything i'd ever experienced, or even seen in movies.
Visualize six lanes of traffic crammed into a street that should hold three lanes at most, and add the fact that the drivers have no regard for... anything. Right turns sometimes get made from the leftmost lanes, and left turns are made from the right lane -- while the other lanes are still moving forward. And all the while we're careening from one side of the road to the other, all in violent swipes, blindly committing to lane changes and trusting ni the madness of the other drivers. It was insanity, but mildly enjoyable. I was laughing hysterically, as was Matt, apparently. Sometimes you can't do anything but laugh, I guess, even when you're making a blind left turn in front of an oncoming speeding semi (one of Matt's bold moves).
It was gloriously awesome, like every Tijuana horror story I've ever read, rolled into one (with no transvestites).
A few times we accidently lost the other van when it proved impossible for two 1970s vans to pull off the same insane maneouvers in the same traffic. Miraculously, it always worked out.
At one point we were so lost that we'd stopped at an intersection -- in the leftmost of six lanes -- and desperately shouting pleas for help. A truck full of friendly Mexicans stacked high with garbage, sent by God, excitedly shouted from six lanes away, "Follow us!" as they sped off.
Desperate, we followed, cutting across all six moving lanes and making a right-turn. We raced after these insane bastards, convinced we{d either get to the freeway but lose the other van, or get shot (or both).
Somehow we made it, and the other van found us after randomly taking turns and finally spotting us.
Southbound at last.
After a couple hours heading south on the Mexican highway system, encountering all the usual sights (roadkill horses and cows, scooters screaming uphill at 110km/hr, drunken truckers) we pulled into Ensenada desperately in need of some Mexican pesos (yes, it was a day of desperation).
We drove around lost for a long time, backtracked and finally found the touristy Americanized downtown.
From then until now has been a blur of offroad racing and fireworks (so far, every night of my life that has been spent in Mexico has involved fireworks).
As luck would have it, we arrived in town on one of the busiest and craziest weekends of the year, on the eve of the famous Baja500 offroad race, where about 2000 souped up million-dollar offroad vehicles race 500 miles around in the desert. My VW van with jerrycans on the roof doesn't look so extreme anymore.
Darkness and stifling traffic kept us from getting as far south as we'd planned, so we had to find a place to sleep for the night. It didn't seem like it would be very safe to sleep on the side of the road, so now we're here at this very posh RV resort (with pool, jacuzzi, etc), completely surrounded by million dollar race machines and their very red-necked, but friendly, crews.
In the short time we've been here we've hung out with the co-driver of last year's winning Baja 1000 entry (the big-daddy of these races), one of the few dirt-bike ironmen (he's going to do the whole 500 miles on his own, where most bikes go out in teams of 4 or 5 drivers), and four Baja-loving and very friendly surfers.
The surfers have been my favourites. They thought our trip plans were "bitchin" and one of the vets -- Andy -- dug out a map for us and drew on many of his favourite semi-secret surf spots, with lots of tips and recommendations (which roads we could cross in the van, etc). I want to be like Andy someday!
Alas, another big day awaits us -- we hope to cut through the Baja500 race course and get deeper south, at least to El Rosario to surf Punta Baja. Time to rage.
Oh yeah, Andy and crew were telling us about the big swell coming in on Tuesday. I excitedly asked, "What day is it today?!" thinking it might be Sunday or Monday. They thought that was hilarious, "Living the dream." I realized I'm finally on vacation.
--
It's pushing midnight now. The crew invaded the van for past hour. Plans are for a 6:30am departure tomorrow and an ass-hauling to El Rosario. We need a vacant beach.
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Saturday June 2, 2007 - Punta BajaLate at night, sitting in the van, which -- like everything else -- is coated in a thin layer of fine red sand, inside and out.
We're camped on a bluff on the very tip of one of the western-most puntas (points) in all of Mexico -- Punta Baja -- 45 minutes or so down a hellish dirt road from El Rosario.
Unfortunately, we're circled by a ring of Banditos, idling in their trucks just out of ear-shot waiting for us to either bring them our stuff or just fall asleep and let them take it. I wish they'd just make their move. Confrontation sucks, but sitting around waiting for it is even worse. Let's get this over with so I can start the long walk back to the real world.
Everyone seems fairly relaxed about the situation except Matt and I (I accidently mentioned to a local earlier in the day that Matt has a laptop. Haha. Oops.). Between the two of us, I doubt we'll get a wink of sleep. Though, its not like I'd be able to do much anyway. Other than try to convince the Banditos that Matt's van has more valuable goods, I'd be pretty screwed.
I've jury-rigged an ingenious little surfboard alarm system, should they try to steal any of my board scattered around the van. I've strategically placed two empty beercans on each board. Annie and I have 6 boards. Two cans per board. You do the math. Maybe I'll get some sleep tonight, after all.
So, anyway, today's been another big day. Here's my point-form summary:
- I sped away from the RV park this morning, tired (very little sleep) and fed up with being in America (an RV park full of car-racers...). The other van wasn't ready to leave, so I left them to fend for themselves. I couldn't handle another minute there. I felt bad leaving them behind, but I at least made sure they had a map.
- Got passed by about 200 race-cars (and/or their "chase" cars) on the trip south. That's right, I probably held up one of the biggest off-road races in the world.
- When filling up with gas in Colonete (sp?) i noticed a stream of gasolina spewing from the underside of the van. No bueno. I pulled the van away from the petrol station and parked it in front of a shack down the road, got out and laid in the dirt trying to figure out the problem. Annie pulled a piece of rust out of the wheel well, which allowed even more gas to gush out. No bueno. It looked like the tank had rusted through (very no bueno -- you have to remove the engine to access the tank in these vans!), but I held out hope that the problem was "just" a busted fuel line. Cursing in the dirt, I looked up to see Charlie and Juarez, sipping Tecate from paper bags (9am?).
Annie and I were able to convey enough to them in sign-language to express the gravity of the situation and provide parts as needed (fuel lines and clamps, and some tools mainly) that I had stashed in the van. Within about a half hour Charlie had us up and running and back on the road. We bought them a case of beer and gave them $20 (too much, in hindsight) in payment. I´ve since noticed that my good flashlight is missing, too, so tack that on the bill. Still, getting a 30 minute car repair on the side of the road in Mexico on day number two, it felt like a good deal. (It also felt good to have the random spare parts stashed in the van that everyone made fun of me for packing...) - We stopped for fish tacos served inside a rusted out old school bus in El Rosario with some locals and a friendly -- but a bit shifty -- ex-pat who had moved to El Rosario to help build a luxury golf resort (very luxury, with Davis Love III and Phil Mickelson designing it). He was friendly and helped us order our food, but he sketched me out a bit -- he was very interested in exactly where we were going, what we had with us, how good Annie's camera was, etc. This may have lead to some of the nervousness I'm feeling right now, watching the Banditos circling outside.
- At the same fish taco place we ran into the other van full of Vancouverites. Yay. As luck would have it, they missed the turnoff for Punta Baja too (it turns out I doubt they´d have ever found it, being a bit convoluted) and ran into us.
We made the long and tough drive out to the Punta, through the fishing camp and we´re not camping on the south side of the point. It was quite a sight as we pulled in -- large (6-8 feet?), extremely clean waves rolling around the point (from the Northwest) and breaking for probably about 500 yards. Unreal.
I rushed to paddle out on my new longboard only to discover that the waves and conditions were a bit more extreme than I'd guessed from shore -- they were breaking in about three feet of water on a rocky reef with boulders scattered throughout the lineup. They were also powerful and steep, jacking up and throwing me head over heels several times, looking completely pathetic to the Banditos watching from above, before I got things figured out and got a few great, long rides.
Brian joined me early on, and eventually the whole crew was out in the water catching (or trying to) waves. Fun times with friends on a perfect wave.
I saw from the lineup that one of the watching Banditos had gotten a flat tire up above on the bluff, so after a while I headed in and offered up some tools to help them. They were grateful and in exchange told me and Matt about a wave they liked better, further into the cove on the south side. Andy had also mentioned this not-so-secret secret wave, as had the ex-pat in the fish taco bus. The rest of the crew was pretty excited about the alternate spot (the point wave was pretty hard to catch) but I'm not too stoked about another sandy beachbreak when I've stumbled upon my favourite wave ever. Hmph.
Once again its freezing cold out tonight. How can this be Mexico in June? All I'd heard for months leading up to the trip were horror stories about how hot it would be. I've got the window cracked open so I can hear when the Banditos trip up my alarm system. That makes it even colder. Damn.
(I just heard something outside. I sure hope it's someone from the other van on a pee-break, but I´m not going out to check...)
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Monday June 4, 2007 - Donde Est Ingles Usted?Got Baja?
Andy, at the Baja500 gave me a sticker for the van that reads, "Got Baja?"
Well, Andy, yup -- I Got Baja. Actually, I think I Got Baja´d pretty damn hard.
I´m sure there are many other such lists in existence, but I´m coming up with my own list of rules for traveling in Baja. Here goes:
- Never leave good waves to find other or better waves.
- Never take someone's advise or hot tip.
- Never drive at night. Really, it's insanity.
Well, in the past two days I've managed to break all three, all because of Rule #2. Thanks Andy.
So, yesterday morning I slept late, relieved (and surprised) that the Banditos didn't finish me off in my sleep. By the time we rolled out of the van, the other van had already packed up (a first) and were getting ready to hit the road. They had plans to go find that other beachbreak described by Andy and the Banditos/fishermen. I think Baja had been gnawing at them.
I wasn´t too eager to leave my favourite wave, so I suggested that we'd probably meet up with them later.
And so, they left.
But they didn't -- their van wouldn´t move, it kept stalling and wouldn't idle.
Uh oh, van problems on a remote point 45 minutes from anywhere down a "graded" dirt road (i think "graded" has a different meaning down here than in Canada -- a graded road is something I no longer consider even close to decent. They suck.) is a no bueno situation, senor.
I'm certainly no mechanic, but I've had enough problems with the van (and other vehicles) that I was able to tinker for a while and get them running well enough to get them back to town and maybe back stateside (by that time they'd abandoned their plans of going off-roading in search of secret waves). We said our goodbyes, then Annie and I sat around for a while doing absolutely nothing. It was great.
Then I got bored and since the punta wave wasn't really working as well as the day before (that's what I keep telling myself now) we figured we shouldn't leave that secret wave to waste and set out on another adventure (refer to rules #1 and #2). Adventures are good, right?
So, we packed up and set out in search of the fabled secret spot, which in Baja means alternately driving and hiking down very rugged and rutted rock / dirt "trails."
You have to hike ahead before driving several sections, because you might get over one tough hill only to find that the trail's no longer going in the right direction and there's nowhere to turn around. No bueno.
After three or four failed hikes (nice beaches but completely impassable roads) we were ready to give up when we stumbled upon gold -- a gorgeous beachside camp (obviously frequented by surfers based on the remains) accessed via a semi-passable dirt/rock trail through a dried riverbed which cut through a sandstone canyon. Just like you'll read about in every Baja horror story.
We hiked back to the van -- in some pretty extreme heat -- and carefully inched the van down to the ocean, with only a few minor incidents (nearly rolling over a couple times with two wheels in the air, getting high-centred, etc).
We setup camp -- it was one of the nicest places I've ever camped -- and walked down the beach to a nearby shack where a clammer lived. We offered him a cerveza in thanks for letting us camp on his beach.
(What a life these fishermen/clammers/divers live, living in remote places in tiny shacks and usually without family. It seems sad, but they seem happy -- and many seem to make good money, driving around in nice trucks [with California plates???]).
He was cool and was wearing a red Canada toque that some prior Canadian surfer had left for him. We talked for a bit in broken spanglish/sign-language and eventually invited him to come by later for a hamburger. Instead, he came by our camp three times trying to sell us weed. Eventually we just gave him $8 (US) and he left us alone for the night. Gringo tax, no doubt. He didn't drive a nice truck -- or any truck -- so I feel it was a fair price.
We went out and paddled around in the surf for a while, having a pretty miserable time. The waves were gutless, the tide was too low, and there was too much kelp and seaweed to even paddle. Refer to rule #1. This annoyed me.
But we had fun sitting around the brushfire playing guitar, reading, and watching the sun slip down behind Punta Baja, where the Banditos were no doubt still creeping around trying to figure out where we'd escaped to...
We woke up early -- around 7 -- and watched our neighbour and another man down the beach clamming in the rain.
Yes, in the rain.
Remember how I said we drove down a dry riverbed, through a canyon, to get to our camp? I realized that if it started raining hard we could get caught in a flash flood and end up stuck up to the axles for days, if not weeks -- no bueno.
We packed up camp in record time and set off down the trail, taking a couple wrong turns and narrowly escaping from a couple more minor incidents.
When we finally reached the gorgeously graded road (really, in comparison it was a huge relief) I hopped out to check under the van for any obvious problems before heading back to El Rosario and on south to Baja Sur.
I noticed that one of the leads to my second fuel pump (I have two gas tanks) had fallen off, so I fixed that. In doing so I felt something drip on my arm... No bueno. I looked over and noticed that fluid was streaming from my transmission -- well, where the nose of my transmission used to be. The transmission was precariously hanging from the underbelly of the van, the mount having been sheared off along the road. I knew this was very bad.
We raced back to El Rosario -- as fast as a VW van with a sagging tranny will go down a graded road -- where we asked around for "uno mechanico" for a while and eventually found one.
It was quite the scene -- back home we'd call it a junk yard, here it's an auto shop. Anyway, after mistakenly asking Victor -- the apprentice -- "Donde est ingles uste?" (prettymuch, "Where is English, you?") he had me back the van over a very wide hole in the ground (I have no idea how the van didn't fall in). He climbed into the hole, took a look around, muttered some spanish curses and sped off down the road to get the more senior mechanic out of bed.
After mucho desperate searching I found the outhouse.
It was a fun few hours, watching as Victor and the mechanic jury-rigged and fabricated a new mount for the transmission out of what I think may have been an old Campbell's soup can, or at best an old steel pipe.
It was pretty amazing, actually -- just a few hours earlier I was pretty sure I'd be taking the bus back to Canada. These guys are pretty brilliant, using whatever they can find to keep things running.
We all had a good laugh when Victor asked us if we were friends with the "other Kombi" (the rest of the world calls VW busses "Kombi"). It turns out that Matt's van ended up in the shop the day before, having gone down for the count again immediately after escaping Punta Baja. I guess Victor deemed the van unfixable and sent them on their way north, out of luck.
Then, as work on my van was just being completed, Matt and Brian pulled up in their Kombi, wide grins smeared across their faces -- Matt had spent a rough night thinking about having to abandon his van in Mexico, got up the next morning and found a disconnected vacuum hose and fixed his van! Yay, Matt!
So, we had a good old time there in the junkyard, paid Victor and crew $40 for their efforts and bought them a pack of smokes (again, a pretty good deal). Then we all headed back to the fish taco bus (run by Victor's wife, apparently) and had a good lunch before saying our goodbyes (again) and heading south across the desert for Guererro Negro aroudn 1pm, leaving lots of time to get there before dark... (see rule #3).
We'd decided to head south because we were sick of being cold and really wanted some heat. Within about 20 minutes of driving we were HOT. Very hot, with temperatures probably pushing 100F in the middle of the desert in the middle of the afternoon.
The Central Baja desert (it probably has some official name) is pretty spectacular, it's full of giant cactus and enormous piles of house-sized boulders, it's hot, and it's huge. Much bigger than I thought when I drove into it at 1pm. I think I saw a sign when leaving El Rosario that warned there were 350km between gas stations. Wow.
We drove for hours, stopping way too often to stuff ice under my hat or strip off more clothing. It was hot. The van doesn't have air-conditioning, you know, and it doesn't really reach speeds that would provide a breeze...
We also stopped a couple times to check out some touristy stuff... like the time we stopped and got completely stuck trying to do a U-turn to checkout some stupid goddamn ruins (what isn't in ruins down here?) that weren't even there. Shoveling dirt out from under a vehicle in the desert with my shirt off is something I'd always wanted to do.
We drove on.
It was about the same time that I realized we'd never make it to Guererro Negro before dark that Annie noticed we were approaching the turnoff for another of Andy's favourite not-so-secret secret surf spots -- known as the Seven Sisters.
He'd given us a hot tip, suggesting we camp for a few days there at "Tres Allejandro's" (3 Alexander's?), which is just a few short miles down a hellish but "totally doable" graded (!) dirt trail.
About 5 miles into the 6 miles of hell -- after asking directions a few times and getting chased out of a mining village by dogs -- we found ourselves at the foot of a massive cliff-like hill thing, with the trail shooting straight up it.
By this point I was pretty fed up, shouting at the desert (and Andy, and Tres himself, the bastard) through my opened window. There was no way I could make it up that hill, but with God and Annie as my witness, I tried. And then I tried again. And then I tried again, got stuck in a rocky hole halfway up the hill, slammed on the brakes and had Annie stuff some rocks underneath my wheels so I wouldn't slide backward (seriously, this was steep -- I was worried we might flip end-over-end back down the hill). The rocks behind the wheels was a brilliantly stupid idea -- now I couldn´t get enough speed or traction up to go UP the hill, and it was impossible to delicately roll my way back down the hill for another attempt (or head back for the highway). Now we were truly in a bind, as the sun was setting and nothing -- except maybe a John Deere -- could get up that hill unassisted. And we couldn´t even go back down. No bueno.
(Apparently Tres' camp is guarded with a gate and gatekeeper. Why bother when it's impossible to get to? I'd really like to meet this guy some day...)
We finally decided to let most of the air out of the tires (for traction), which kinda worked because it allowed me to move forward a couple inches and have Annie yank the rocks out from under the spinning rear wheels. Don't try this at home, kids. I then nervously slid/rolled back down the goddamn cliff.
By that time I'd hiked up the hill to cool my jets and check what was on the other side... It looked like the road turned into a machete-cut walking trail through Costa Rica, so we decided it was time to abort the mission and find somewhere else to camp.
We then very nearly got stuck trying to turn around at the bottom.
Get me the hell outta here!
Dejected, with tails between our legs (at the time I thought this was the only access point to the Seven Sisters, though I've since learned otherwise) we headed back toward "civilization," pretty fed up with Baja in general.
I rolled down my window, did some more screaming at Tres, and sped back to another nearby Punta -- our last hope for a place to camp in the next 100km.
At the Punta we found a pay-campground belonging to another entreprenour, Don Miguel Lope Fernandez San Dickhead. He was obviously much smarter than Tres though, having designed his campground to be at the bottom of a steep and sandy hill, making it easy to get to -- but impossible to get out. I figured $5 a night for the rest of my life was a pretty good deal, but Annie talked me out of it and we dejectedly set out for Guererro Negro, 100km away, with two flat rear tires.
The next 20km or so were spent laughingly cursing Baja and the ridiculousness of the situation.
Then darkness set in and a nervous silence ensued. You see, driving the desert at night in Baja is famously treacherous because the drivers of the oncoming big rigs are often drunk on tequila, there´s no shoulders on the road (at all), the ditches are a long way down, and cows hang out on the highway because the black ashphalt stays warm (I have no idea where they come from, as there's nothing alive in that desert during the day).
Much of the drive was spent with Annie crouched forward watching for cattle as I gripped the wheel shouting, "Please be sober!" to the oncoming trucks, all the while scanning the ditches to see if they might be "jumpable" in a bind.
It was seriously scary.
And then I realized I had my sunglasses on. I removed them, which bought me another 20 minutes of "dusk," but really didn't help out too much.
We drove those last 80km at about 30km/hr but eventually made it here -- Guererro Negro where we may stick around for a couple days, or we may head down a trail to the coast where we´ll hire a boat to take us to Isla Natividad, or maybe we'll head somewhere else entirely (I have an idea...). Who knows. Regardless, I've got the three rules to live by now, so all will be well.
Sadly, we're recharging in a cheap motel, with nowhere to camp in town. I think we've earned it, though. $26 for a hot shower and two big beds seems like a good enough deal for a night or two.
Surprisingly (it's been a very long day, with a major breakdown and getting almost hopelessly stuck a few times), I feel more than ever that a bit of adventure's good for the soul.
Maybe even more surprisingly, I think I might be growing more optimistic on this trip -- today I found myself saying to myself (while taking a nervous pee before trying to extract the van from another predicament), "No worries, no matter how bad this shit gets -- and I doubt it can get much worse -- everything's gonna work out fine." And it did. And it always does.
I think we may have had a couple wheels up in the air when I found myself saying that.
