Baja California, Mexico that is.
December 12, 2020
As per usual, we avoided highways while traversing Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico and mainly tried to hug the Mexican border, as if to get to get a foretaste of what was to come.
Apprehensive over leaving the comforts of our homeland, it didn’t lessen our anxiety to see the region crawling with immigration officers.
Every few miles we saw yet another green and white Border Patrol and Security truck, some stationed on hilltops and road-crossings or alongside infra-red towers. Weirdly, others were dragging old truck tires behind them, spare sets of which were left chained together at arroyos and bridge abutments along the border’s twisted route through the desert. We could only speculate that they were designed to reveal footprints of illegal migrants, or to cover their own tire-tracks.
Our thoughts cast over the wastes of such a hopeless effort, of the expenses put into paying for so many agents and their careers. We thought of how boring it would be to drive so slowly for such long periods of time, with short moments of excitement when they found someone.
It made me think of how people talked about deployments – mostly boring with short bursts of excitement. It made me wonder what it was like to be either of them. And then back to the patrol officers. What were their backgrounds and their beliefs? Did they have any qualms about what they did, or did they believe in it full-force?
“I wonder what it’s like to cross it,” I said with a glance over to Nick, who was driving. He nodded his head in agreement, never taking his eyes off the road. He too was lost in thought.
The desert was vast. Indeed, the Chihuahuan Desert is the largest and among the most diverse in North America, covering nearly 200,000 square miles. The vegetation and landscape appeared unforgiving with its multitude of thorned bushes and speared cacti and its constant change of elevation. I imagined myself wearing thick clothing and getting caught up in the plants every few feet. I was getting frustrated just thinking about it. With my cushy, comfortable background, I doubt I’d be able to make the hike.
“If we see anyone hitchiking, let’s pick him up!” Nick smiled at me.
“Yeah, okay!” I wasn’t sure if he was serious or not, but I figured if we did see anyone walking along, they probably deserved a break.
We made it to El Paso without getting a chance to test either of our commitments to picking up a hitchhiker. There we met with an old Air Force friend of mine, Malinda, and talked about our Keesler days and our old group. We caught up on each other’s future plans and desires, with each other’s partners, and joked around about faults in our personalities and our knowledge.
Malinda is always a treat because she’s a part of me that I don’t get a chance to see much anymore. She’s dramatic and animated and constantly berating herself in a humorous way. That kind of sarcasm and light-hearted poking is something I miss about my own sense of humor. It’s grounded, humble. More than that, it sends a message that she doesn’t take herself too seriously. She knows she’s flawed and in which areas. And I love and admire that.
December 14
After hanging out in the Buttercup Sand Dunes of Imperial Sand Dunes in SoCal…
We made it to Mexico!
Anticipating rejection at the border, I (and my anxious tummy) was relieved, though quite shocked, that the border agents only wanted to take a look inside the back of the van before sending us on our way. Nick and I exchanged incredulous glances before bursting out in laughter. We really hadn’t expected they’d let us in.
Everything started moving too quickly for me because I just felt so unprepared, and I’ve always been pretty terrified of ever going to Mexico. Most concur that it’s a sketchy place to visit, while few others state the opposite. So, this was absolutely not on the top of my list of places to visit, having never visited another country before.
I wouldn’t go into the grocery store without Nick, and I don’t think I’ll do much without him nearby to be honest. I don’t know how solo female travellers do it.
We have one fellow vanlifer we met a month or two ago near Virginia, and she’s alone. The word is that she’s coming to Baja in January, and I’m hoping we’ll be close so we can meet up with her.
Anyway, so, we went into the grocery store, and guess the frick what. After spending 29 years of my life being the shortest person in the room, I was suddenly the tallest (female). At first I felt disoriented, and I couldn’t tell why (other than the fact that we just entered a different country of which language we speak basically none of).
But after waiting for about four women around me to make their way through the aisle, I realized that I felt like a giant. And I wondered if this was how tall people normally felt. I also wondered if the aisles were shorter to align with its base. What else around me had shrank in size?
As we drove down the highway, straight for Ensenada, I imagined every car that passed us stopping in front of us in order to force us to follow suit – with the intention of robbing or kidnapping us. I was a ball of nerves the whole ride through. Nick, meanwhile, asked if I wanted to stop at the vineyards along the way to try some wine.
I scoffed in his direction before nervously laughing out, “We’re not stopping. Not for pictures, not for wine, not for food, nothing. We’re going straight through to Ensenada!”
When we got close to the city, we saw quite a few California license plates. Relief washed over me. I thought in Nick’s direction, “It’s amazing how calming it was to see US license plates. I wonder if this is how foreign people feel when they see their language in the US. Do you think they feel the same sense of relief and comfort?”
“Absolutely.”
When we finally parked, we had decided to stay at a hotel. A hotel is much more than space. It’s a safe place to slow down and gather ourselves, and we needed that more than ever. We have no idea what we’re doing next, where we’re going, or how long we’ll be there. But when have we ever?
Dec 19
Oh Mexico, pobrecito Mexico. The disorder and chaos, the horrible roads and half-baked construction projects, the road-side trash-fires, the innumerable shrines to the innumerable victims of carretera (highway) fatalities, the wasted potential of whole families, from abuela to abuelo, collecting firewood or gathering seaweed from dawn to dusk.
Will you ever escape the poverty and corruption bequeathed from your imperial progeny, or from Santa Anna, to choose one failed dictator out of dozens in this proud country’s past?
And yet the love and the warmth shown by all to us and to all others fills us with envy.
Hotel desk clerks ensure our parking spot is accessible to our high-ass van, highway check-point “securidad” personnel, armed to the teeth, inquire as the names of our dogs while searching our van, a fish-monger cleaning her stall Nick’s age sees us walk by and says “Hola”–in fact, every passer-by on every sidewalk says this–a surfer on the beach is stopped by a complete stranger to discuss the tides, can only wonder if the entire beach crowd are related.
They simply act as family, and more familial than some families we know at home. Bottom line: the USA’s familial, emotional and spiritual death is most apparent upon its southern escapement. We have so much to learn.
On t’other hand, I really resent even passing through a place where the law-enforcement-officers are the last ones you should call in a pinch. Though Karyssa reminds me that this may just be a function of our privilege that we are in the perception that the cops are there to help us. We have conquered some fears in MX, but not that of getting rolled by the policia. But so far so good.
We crossed the border at Tecate, hoping for and surely finding a less congested port of entry than Tijuana. It was almost too easy: we were directed to pull over and asked our destination before being moved on, with no mention of the various and sundry documents we had gathered. So relieved we were that we neglected to properly search for the visa (FMM) office, and we scrambled across the busy city and finally found highway 3 towards the pacific coast.
Ensenada and a hotel was our goal, and we pulled it off despite our trepidations. Ate in the hotel dining room and paid about $50 for a beautifully tiled room with a balcony. In the am, we figured out the immigration stuff, paying M$450 for a 6-month visa, having been directed across town to the busy port by a very friendly official in a second migration center accross town. (The line of central and south american migrant hopefuls clued us in to the comlexities n this situation.)
We ate a street taco of a fish they called “cod”–in cod we trusted, that is–and strolled the melancon after sunset. We bought two tequila drinks and sat at the by now sleepy port. It is actually Mexico’s eigth largest, and is among its greenest, apparently.
We next had to leave the new-found security of Ensenada and hit the open road, with only i-Overlander as our guide.
After stopping by to see La Bufadora…
…it led us to a remote stretch of beach on 100ft bluffs, where we were completely alone and isolated.
We slept undisturbed and when we woke we discovered a small army of farmers and their families, kids and all, gathering god knows what down at the waterline. Some were stuffing seaweed into cloth sacks, perhaps for composting, while other filled buckets with crustaceans, we guessed.
We felt very US-ian for not greeting them and asking them for details, but they were country folk, after all.
We drove a lot over the next couple of days, through the arid and volcanic hills of Desierto del Vizcaino. The desert gets an average rainfall of about 2in per year.
Boojum Tree
Yet, it’s still home to many species of flora beyond the expected organ pipe or saguaro cactus, some of which, by the way, had to be relocated to make way for the new border wall. Our favorites include elephant trees, spiny pinchusin cactus, fuzzy and randomly segmented chollo cactus, and boojum trees.
Boojum trees are an interesting cacti, growing up to 60 feet, their trunks a tan brown color, yet they look green due to the leaves sprouting off its multitude of spines.
We haven’t seen much in terms of fauna – other than the usual donkeys, goats, and cows. Most of the nondomestic animals that we see are avian: hawks, vultures, swallow-tailed kites, and quail (we think?).
We boondocked at a tiny turn-out in a high saddle on a dirt road in the Sierra de San Francisco, and beyond bustling towns like El Rosario and Rosalito, San Quintin and Punta Prieta.
Though the Vizcaino is a UNESCO world heritage sight due to the ancient cave paintings, they can only be visted with a guide and their tours are another victim of Covid.
San Ignacio was our next pueblo for desayuno, including local dates (“datil”) which were amazing!
We attempted a drive down a salt covered landscape to San Ignacio Lagoon, but it was a long way of driving on washboards. We heard the whales hadn’t made it this far south yet, so after a while of driving and seeing we still had such a long way to go, we turned around.
Heroic Mulege was our next town, and it finally reminded me of the pueblo’s of Queretaro and my prior visits to mainland Mexico.
A dude, Marcello, approached us at the hotel bar and started talking about how beautiful the rio and playas and dunes are on horseback, which of course was all Karyssa needed to hear.
Before you knew it, we had agreed to ride with this caballero in the morning. K got to swim with her horse!
His web site don’t lie, and he’s a sweet guy, whose English is much better than our Spanish, but that’s not saying much. It is typical of our encounters thus far; most Mexicanos know some English, but not much.
Dec 20
Yesterday my (Karyssa’s) gramma passed. It’s hard to ever know what your reaction is supposed to be and how you’re supposed to be. I, in particular, am extremely slow to ever produce any real feelings or comprehension of major events. Indeed, we’re a week in Mexico, and I still haven’t figured out how to ground myself in the fact. But, I imagine y’all will hear about it when I’ve figured it out ’cause I don’t do a great job of keeping my thoughts and feelings inside my head.
Baja has been a treat. I started off this trip literally terrified of everyone and everything. Like, I thought every man I saw was going to kidnap or rob me.
When we slept by the water (our first night boondocking), my stomach was in knots because 1) it was getting too close to dark and everyone says not to drive in Mexico at night and 2) I was so scared the Cartel or some desparate gang of men was going to shoot our van up (as I had read happened to one vanlifer some 100+ miles north of us). I didn’t fall asleep for hours and woke up probably seven or eight times that night.
I had read countless horror stories of vanlifers and tourists in Mexico being robbed by gangs of people, getting shot at for not handing over any money, holding all sorts of weapons (once, more recently, a grenade launcher of all things!).
You might be wondering, “Well then why the heck did y’all decide to go to Mexico, if you were that afraid?!”
And listen. If I didn’t do things because I was scared, I’d never do anything.
Y’all might think I’m exaggerating, but no. I literally hear two or three times a day one of us (whoever is driving) wailing out to the other, “I’m sorry!” as our car either falls off the cliff we’re driving by, crashes into the water below us, flips over from turning to hard, or gets crushed by a semi (that somehow neither of us saw) as we’re taking a right or left turn back onto the highway.
We went on a boat ride yesterday, and we died four or five times, complete with the water filling my lungs and the waves thrashing our bodies every which way, staring desparately into Nick’s eyes as we accept our fate. The dogs never stood a chance because even though I meant to grab onto them and swim up, I lost them in the moment and never made it up anyway. It’s all very dramatic.
All you can really do with a daily onslaught of fear and an extremely vivid imagination is do whatever it is you wanted to do anyway. So, that’s what we’re doing.
Anyway, things have improved drastically, as far as fear of being in Mexico goes. We’re still alive, and what’s more is everyone is beyond kind here. We get that Baja is different from the mainland, and I imagine I’ll go through all the fears that haunted me before once we reach the “real” Mexico, but what else are we supposed to do, not go? Psh.
Not knowing Spanish has been a struggle. Like I said, everyone is really sweet anyway, but you can tell when you’ve offended someone for a reason unbeknownst to you. And they’re not going to tell you you’ve offended them. So, it’s like a little bit impossible to know exactly what behavior or words you need to avoid to not offend until you’ve done it so many times that you can recognize the pattern of people being taken aback.
And my big realization is that Mexican people are not fans of the word “no.” All the time I say, “No, gracias.” Or I yell at the dogs, “No, Daisy/Frida! No, ma’am!” And like, I had looked up customs and courtesies before, but none of them mentioned this.
So then I looked up, “Saying no in Mexico” or some such specificity and found out that it’s really quite rude, just as it would be in the Middle East. Given that, I felt I should’ve caught on sooner.
In any case, we’re trying to limit our use of the word “no.” Usually that means stumbling around in limited Spanish to avoid saying no, while actually saying no. Apparently just a “Gracias” to shopkeeps will do, and the “no” is implied. So, that’s useful to know.
Also, whenever asked how the food is, I kept giving the “OK” sign and saying, “Muy beuno” or some such generic. Turns out, the OK sign is an asshole here.
And I’ve been using the “tu” form of verbs, which I knew was not okay for formal situations. But I didn’t realize that like literally every situation is formal if you don’t know the person. So… that’s cool. I’m just a fecking eejit, no big deal.
Anyway, as Nick said earlier, we had a blast riding horses the other day. Nick didn’t want to swim with his horse, so it was just me and Marcello. And it was totally wild.
We had to get undressed to our underwear because the salt water damages the leather saddles. Communicating that idea to me was a feat alone. But eventually Nick figured it out and told me what was up. And then we got on the horses bareback, and let. me. tell you something! What in the actual fuck is riding a horse bareback?!
Like, just a really amazing experience to feel the horses limbs and muscles as it moves is mind-blowing. I suppose it’s really only mind blowing because we’re so used to the saddles. But it was incredible. So Indio (my horse) is just like, no big deal, walking into sea. And the water steadily rises from my feet, to my shins, to my knees, and then, suddenly it’s up to my stomach. And I honestly could not comprehend it all.
I wanted so badly to pause the moment and just take a second to ground myself, to take in what was happening. Everything was distant and felt like I was watching a movie (as life often does), but it was so absolutely beautiful that I could not have been more happy. I imagined watching an fMRI of my brain and seeing it all lit up from the overstimulation. Just an amazing experience.
And not one bit of it was captured on camera! Nick and I had been taking pictures of the whole horseback riding expedition when Nick finally realized (while Indio and I were swimming) that we had forgotten to put the camera’s SIM card back in. It was a shame, but also no big deal. I took a photo of the horses from my dying phone, and we called it a day with the electronics.
The three of us sat on the beach a while, trying to share stories of our lives while eating some of Marcello’s homemade burritos.
Marcello nodded to my hairy legs and said, “You’re a hippie?” I was caught completely off guard and wasn’t sure what he had said. “You’re a hippie!” He repeated, smiling. I looked at my legs and thought, “Well… a feminist… but I guess there’s no use trying to explain that with my zero Spanish.” So I replied, “Sure. I guess so.” And he went on to tell of all his hippie friends around the world and how he liked hippies. It was really sweet, the attempt at connecting and relating.
After that, Nick and I continued our journey south. At some point along the way, our Maxx Air Fan started freaking out, making this loud beeping. Turns out a fuse blew, and we weren’t sure why or where.
We put it on the backburner for now and just focused on the mountainous terrain ahead. Every valley had a pullout that led to a beach along the Bahia Concepcion, and just let me whisper something over to you right now. Que Bonita! (How beautiful!) (“Bonita” is the only adjective we seem to know in Spanish.)
The steep cliffs that surround little crops of beach and the frigging colors were unreal. This place really reminds me a lot of California… which might be obvious, considering they share a coast.
We made it to Loreto that evening, and Nick tried to figure out what the heck happened to the fan. Eventually, he decided it was time for a break, and we walked around downtown.
Loreto is absolutely adorable. I love it so much, which is basically how I felt about Mulege and Santa Ignacio, though they are mas poquito (smaller). The restaurants, bars, and hotels are all huddled so close together that you really don’t have to walk far to go from one end to the other.
We didn’t endulge that night, but we did run into some people working a co-op, and ended up booking a boat tour for the next morning. Nick is always really quick with his decisions. He just goes for it. I, on the otherhand, am much more hesitant and like to look up all the other options before choosing one.
Together, we’re kinda perfect, and it works out much like you think it would – him making me make decisions without a chance to make sure it’s “the best one” and me making him slow down and consider alternate options. Anyway, we both went for it.
The boat ride was almost as amazing as the horseback riding, although it offered more beautiful sights. After sleeping on the side of a very noise road (people singing at the top of their lungs as they drive by, dogs barking, and loud industrial vehicles passing through), we went out on the water.
The waves were pretty huge, in defense of my anxieties. And my dad is a boat captain, has been since he was young. So, being used to having an expert in maneuvering traitorous waters, now I was concerned. The whole time I have three thoughts repeating in my head, “We’re gonna die,” “My dad can do this better” and “My gramma is gone.”
Watching the mountains go by, staring after some pelicans or blue-footed boobies, or being entranced by the change from dark blue water to crystal clear teal water was a great distraction from my invasive negativity.
At one point, we spotted some dolphins and sat in the ocean for a moment in order to watch them. I was glad I had taken my Dramamine. And I thought of my grandma and how these are her favorite animal.
Then I heard the captain say “words words words sea lion words words” and I snapped back to reality. “Sea lions?!” I didn’t need to say anymore. We were off.
Because we were on the other side of the island, there was no break to calm the waves, and they got huge. I realized that despite having grown up spending my weekends on the boat, I never actually went out to sea. I might have twice gone passed the Destin Jetties, but the waves hadn’t been like this. I thought for sure we were going to capsize. “Then again, I always think we’re going to die, so this is probably just me being dramatic again,” I kept telling myself.
Eventually, after passing this really neat lava creation, we reached the sea lions.
In fact, we got way too close to the sea lions. The captain was eager to make my day, and he thought he could do that by getting super close to them.
And it absolutely was my/our responsibility to be like, “Hey, you’re getting too close.” Like, I had the whole “The MMPA of 1972 states that…” going through my head, trying to prepare myself to say something to him. But, I didn’t. Why? Because I’m a POS. That’s all there is to it, honestly.
Anyway, we saw some sea lions. And they were super cute. Nothing happened due to us getting super close. None of the sea lions moved or seemed to care. But still…
In any case, we left there and headed for an unbelievably gorgeous beach.
December 21
Yesterday we went for a visit to San Javier, mostly to figure out if a little driving would charge our dying house batteries. (It didn’t.) The hills were beautiful, and had it been cooler (Frida doesn’t last long in any temps below 60), we would have loved to have hiked a bit.
Plenty of other people, however, were hiking along the road on the way to town. We thought to pick a group of them up, but there was five people in the group. As we continued on we realized that nearly the whole town seemed to be out for a walk on this hot Sunday afternoon.
We guess it might be a weekly ritual, and found it strange that they only had this narrow dead-end camino to walk on, but we have no idea.
We also saw goats and donkeys on the way to San Javier and then on the way back. 🙂
On the bright side of vanlife problems, we’re going to get fat here. We went for a second night to Mi Loreto for some of the most unbelievably tasty food Karyssa attests to having ever had. Their variant on mole sauce uses almonds (and cocoa, of course) and is amazingly “rico” (rich).
This morning we had a heartfelt “hasta luego” to our host at Hostel Casa del Loreto and full of freak-out-edness over our blown fuse and dying house batteries–these are the marine-grade deep-cycle batteries that are supposed to be charged off of our alternator as we drive and upon which our lights, fridge, ceiling fan and “agua bomba” (water pump) depend.
One “taller” (workshop) had been recommended to us by the host at an RV park and a Facebook group, but Nick sat outside of his shop for over an hour before giving up, and then a trip to an AutoZone provided another clue, but eventually it was an f-ing Google search that led us to Manuel, an electricidad mechanico back in Loreto.
Armed with the simplest voltmeter, and a current-checking wand, he magically found a blown 3-amp fuse that was buried in the firewall of the engine compartment. A true shade-tree mechanic, as we were ushered around the block to the side of his open-air shop, he ended up riding his bike to the parts store, replaced it within 30 minutes, and we were on our way, 400 pesos and a whole lot of stress lighter. “Usted esta nuestros super-hero,” I fumbled.
A beautiful, though four-hour, drive through the mountains brought us to La Paz, and a whole new aspect of the peninsular. Covid closures turned this cruise-line destination into a ghost-town, and we watched the matron of a seafood restaurant ride his bike to get the ingredients for our meal, such are the margins these days…sad face.
Though the malecon is beautiful, and makes for amazing people-watching, La Paz is mindful of Guadalajara in that it dwarfs every pueblo around it and yet lacks their luster; it is just too big for our style. We did manage to find a quiet strip of land jutting out into Ensenada de La Paz and slept well.
Upon waking, however, we discovered that Nick left his bank-card in Loreto somewhere, so we spent half the day finding a hotel that would allow us to use it as an address for my bank to send a replacement. A pain in the arse is all part of it, I guess.
Mirabile dictu: We’ve been in MX a week but it feels like at least a fortnight, given the challenges of all senses working all the time. Next up: Cabo San Lucas.
