comitan
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 4177
Registered: 3-27-2004
Location: La Paz
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Mood: mellow
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Slate article on traveling Baja
Interesting reading./
http://www.slate.com/id/2131979/entry/0/#ContinueArticle
Strive For The Ideal, But Deal With What\'s Real.
Every day is a new day, better than the day before.(from some song)
Lord, Keep your arm around my shoulder and your hand over my mouth.
“The sincere pursuit of truth requires you to entertain the possibility that everything you believe to be true may in fact be false”
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Bruce R Leech
Elite Nomad
Posts: 6796
Registered: 9-20-2004
Location: Ensenada formerly Mulege
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Mood: A lot cooler than Mulege
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that makes me want to take up surfing
not
Bruce R Leech
Ensenada
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BajaNews
Super Moderator
Posts: 1439
Registered: 12-11-2005
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Baja, Top to Bottom
http://www.slate.com/id/2131979/
Things to know before you drive the Baja Peninsula.
From: Seth Stevenson
Subject: Strip Club Touts and Empty Dirt Roads
Posted Monday, Dec. 12, 2005, at 10:49 AM ET
My goal was constrained adventure. Adventure in a neat little box. I wished to maximize: foreignness, wildness, unpredictability. I wished to
minimize: cost, distance from home, genuine danger to life and limb.
This is how I came to be here in Baja California. Because Baja is in a foreign country, with a foreign language. Much of it is forbidding, uninhabited
desert. It brims with tales of banditos, of broken-down cars in barren wilderness, and of tequila-fueled insanity. In short: It's an adventure.
At the same time, it's in our backyard. The flight from Chicago to Cabo (the most distant point in Baja) is four hours and change. Many a retailer
accepts U.S. dollars. If all goes horribly awry?your car is stolen; your passport is lost; you contract a harsh giardia infection?you can always hop
on a bus and be back in San Diego in less than 24 hours.
My plan is to fly into Tijuana (at Baja's northern border, just steps from U.S. soil), rent a car there, and drive the length of the 1,000-mile
peninsula (catching my return flight out of Cabo, at Baja's southern tip). I will rent an ordinary compact sedan. I will have no planned itinerary. I
will travel alone.
I must admit that, at the last minute, I got mildly freaked about doing this trip by myself. I begged several pals to come with me, but none could
clear the vacation time. In an act of desperation, I posted a notice on the Lonely Planet message board two days before I left, hoping some friendly
backpacker might hitch a ride with me. But no one replied.
So I'm solo. I speak very little Spanish, I have no experience with the terrain, and I will be easy prey for any roving banditos I might encounter.
Cross your fingers.
Tijuana to San Quintin
My arrival goes smoothly. I rent a car from the Avis desk at the Tijuana airport and make the short drive to my downtown hotel. Some might have found
this drive harrowing, but hailing as I do from Boston, I am quite familiar with the invent-your-own-lane ground rules.
My hotel sits just off the main tourist drag, so I leave my car in the guarded parking lot and head out for an evening stroll. First stop is an ATM to
obtain some pesos. As I'm transacting, an absolutely plastered fellow wobbles up to the next machine. A cute Mexican woman hovers over his shoulder.
As the bills shoot out, she asks in a bubbly voice, "Can I have one? Please?" Big smile. The man drunkenly but affably attempts to argue that he needs
this money and that it would make no sense to just hand it over to her. But now she's leading him unsteadily by his arm back down the street. I have a
feeling she'll end up with the bulk of those pesos somehow.
My own walk along the street is greeted with come-ons from every strip-club doorway (these make up a goodly percentage of the doorways as a whole).
One tout even walks with me down the sidewalk, offering me all manner of delight. When I show little interest, he asks: "You don't like girls? I know
a gay club." Still getting no response, he takes a surprise tack. "Are you trying to be rude?" he asks. "Are you doing the rude thing? Cuz I can be
rude, too."
I'd prefer not to learn what this entails. At the same time, I'm noticing that my jet lag and my sleaze fatigue are catching up with me. I briskly
cross the street and call it a night. My hotel gets San Diego TV channels with local news from Southern California. And while Tijuana does have its
racy side (e.g., that tourist strip, which of course is to be avoided by people not seeking tequila or trouble), in many ways it's a thoroughly modern
and bland West Coast city. I'm not feeling the adventure yet.
The next morning, I leave the strip-club barkers and the carbon-monoxide haze behind. For an hour or two, I drive south along a coastline that is
littered with half-built concrete foundations, abandoned bulldozers, churned up mounds of dirt, and billboards hawking resort condominiums.
But then it all starts to change. The development peters out. The road looks like those bucolic, hilly stretches of the Pacific Coast Highway. The
radio scans in vain for a signal, briefly alighting on an accordion ballad before fading back into static.
At lunchtime, I pull off the highway onto a washboarded dirt road. Three bumpy miles lead me to a stretch of empty coast, where I find a restaurant
built from the remains of an old wooden cannery building. I'm the only customer here. The maitre d', who is also the waiter (and the only visible
employee), seats me by a window overlooking the water. There is nothing outside but whipping wind, a bobbing boat, and a fisherman casting off the
dock. I order the tacos de pollo.
Halfway through my lunch, a weathered old sport-fishing guide moseys in and takes a seat at the bar. The maitre d' mixes him a drink and they start to
chat in a mishmash of Spanish and English. I eavesdrop, expecting to hear sad, wistful tales about that brutal mistress the sea. It turns out they're
discussing an episode of Judge Judy.
My delicious lunch done, I ramble further down the highway and then pull off once more at a sign for the Rancho Cielito Lindo. (Because what could be
wrong with a "beautiful little heaven"?) Another washboard road. I've got the windows down, and my hair is thickening with dust.
After some twists and turns, I find myself pulling up to a set of dunes at the edge of the ocean. I get out and am blasted by a fierce coastal wind.
It's blowing sea spray from the tops of the waves and whipping sand from the dunes across the flat of the beach. Sand grains are attacking my
eyelids?and winning. There is one lonely building here, propped up on stilts high above the dunes. A feral dog picks at some garbage near its
staircase. I climb up and take refuge from the sandstorm.
Inside is a little cantina named the Wet Buzzard. A Mexican soap opera plays on a staticky television. A Mexican infant toddles between the tables. A
couple of guys are sitting, drinking can after can of Tecate beer, watching the sun as it sets on the far side of the dunes. It's getting dark. Life
slows down. The adventure begins to unfold.
-------------------------------
Subject: Margaritas, Se?oritas, Ass-Kicking, and Clams
Posted Tuesday, Dec. 13, 2005, at 7:20 AM ET
SAN QUINTIN?It's evening at the Rancho Cielito Lindo. The light socket in my room is broken, so I've lit the candle that was sitting on the
nightstand. I'm looking at some maps to figure out where, exactly, I am.
San Quintin is on the Pacific Coast?only a half-day's drive from Tijuana but already a different world. The towns here are tiny agglomerations of
houses and shacks (and, if you're lucky, maybe a gas station) spread out along 200 yards or so of highway. The prevailing features are emptiness and
dust.
Getting hungry for dinner, I change into warmer clothes by the light of the candle, then walk a few steps across the desert to a nearby cantina. I
take a table underneath a red lantern. As my carne asada arrives, I notice that the house band is climbing up on a tiny stage. Two guys in matching
outfits. One takes his place behind a keyboard and drum machine while the other struts forward with a microphone in hand. They launch into a series of
Mexican ballads and then throw in an English-language surprise: I'm certain John Lennon, departed 25 years now, would thoroughly enjoy this
synth-accordion-tinged rendition of "Imagine" ("Choo may saaaay I'm a dreamer").
Over at the bar, I notice two younger guys I'd seen earlier, drinking beers at the Wet Buzzard while the sun went down. It's several beers later for
them now, by the looks of things. After settling my check, I join them for yet another round of Tecates.
Will and Chris have driven their camper all the way from Idaho, and they plan to spend a month or two touring Baja. They're eager for some fishing
tomorrow. Will strikes up a conversation with a gringo sport-fisher in a wide-brimmed straw hat. He gets tips on which part of the beach to troll for
yellowtail. The older dude insists that Will must buy some clams from the kitchen here to use as bait. Before Will fully understands what's happening,
the guy is negotiating with a waiter and then handing him a wad of pesos. Moments later, a dripping, odorous plastic bag is delivered into Will's
arms. Not sure what to do with it, he places it on the floor under his barstool.
Chris orders a round of tequila shots (a particularly vicious variety) to celebrate the clams' arrival. Soon after, margaritas arrive, so big that the
bartender ought to issue them with snorkeling gear. The music is growing louder, my brain is growing fuzzier.
Will's struck up a flirtation with a busty, red-headed se?orita. He attempts to keep up with her on the dance floor, but he's no match at all. Now
she's spurning him for other partners (including a vaquero, in stitched boots and stetson, who dances infinitely better than Will). But at the same
time, this woman is giving Will all these pouty, smoldering looks over the vaquero's shoulder. Her friends walk over and energetically try to explain
something to me and Chris, but the language barrier is insurmountable. The only thing we establish is that they have never heard of Idaho. At this
point, I notice a commotion near my feet and glance down. A dog has somehow entered the cantina. He's sniffing at the bag of clams.
Over in the booth by the window, a group of crusty old gringo sport-fishers is ordering tray after tray of those lagoon-sized margaritas. Now one of
these wrinkled guys limps over and leans in, unsteadily, toward my ear. His voice is a growl, and his breath reeks of half-digested limes. "You might
want to get your friend out of here before he gets his ass kicked," the man says. He leans back to stare unblinkingly into my eyes.
"He's not actually my friend," I quickly stammer. "I just met him today." I am desperate to avoid all responsibility and consequence. I am not a good
person.
"Well," the man says as he leans back into me, "you should get him out of here or he's gonna get his ass kicked."
It's not entirely clear what he means. Is he saying that the vaquero won't take kindly to Will's flirtations? Or is he stating that he himself wants
to kick Will's ass?
(It's not unimaginable. Perhaps he's had a few too many 'ritas, is itching for a fistfight, and simply doesn't like the cut of Will's jib. If so, it's
rather polite of him to warn us in advance.)
I reckon that either way, the prudent course is to get Will out of there quickly. His pal Chris is long gone, so it's up to me at this point. I put
our drinks on the bar and hustle Will to the door. As it swings shut behind us, the raucous music and yelling instantly cut out and give way to a
whistling desert wind.
I have no idea where Will's camper is. He swears he can find the way, so I bid him good night and good luck. The last I see of him, he is stumbling
into the pitch-black desert, clutching his bag of clams.
The next morning, I head out early. I'm looking to make some headway on a long day's drive across the desert. At a military checkpoint a hundred miles
into my trip, I notice that a couple of cars ahead of me in line there is a camper with Idaho plates. I manage to flag it down, and we pull off at an
arroyo further down the highway.
Will is intact, thank goodness, though a tad foggy on what transpired last night. No matter: Now is the time to let his dog scramble around and
urinate on this roadside cactus patch, to take some snapshots of the eerily desolate scenery, and to rehydrate. After recapping the night over a round
of water, we say goodbye once again, and I drive away in a cloud of dust.
-------------------------------
Subject: Road Trip Qua Road Trip, Getting a Tad Loopy, Tipsy Snorkeling
Posted Wednesday, Dec. 14, 2005, at 7:08 AM ET
San Quintin to Bah?a Concepci?n
Halfway through its winding trek from Tijuana to Cabo, Mexico 1 (the "Transpeninsular," which is in fact the only highway on the peninsula, with minor
exceptions) cuts across the desert, switching coasts from the Pacific Ocean to the Sea of Cortez. Between these two shores, there is little but
cactus, dust, and rocks.
Hey, bring on the endless road, I say?the journey is the destination. (Or at least it'd better be. Else there would be no destination here at all.) On
the plus side, my rental car is a manual shift with a pleasing amount of oomph. The passenger's seat has upon it a map, a bottle of water, and three
granola bars. So, I'm ready to churn out some miles.
And miles. And miles.
Four hours in, I'm getting a tad loopy. The landscape is totally dead and still?the only flash of movement comes from tumbleweeds, with their comic,
lurching somersaults. The radio is receiving no signal at all (there aren't even power lines here, never mind any radio transmitters). In the absence
of stimulation, I find myself visiting some dark, far-flung corners of my brain. At one point, I notice that I've been talking aloud to myself for
nine or 10 paragraphs. This prods me to turn the radio volume way up, even though it's just crackling static, because the alternatives?total silence
or my own freak-show monologue?are simply not bearable.
Finally, at a military checkpoint (I have no idea what these guys could be guarding?who would invade an empty desert that's not oil-bearing?), the
monotony is broken. A soldier motions for me to pull over and stop. He tries to explain something in long Spanish sentences, but I am useless.
Finally, he hits on a winning formulation: He says the English word "ride" while pointing at something behind him. When I follow his finger, I see two
young guys in soccer uniforms sitting on the curb of the highway median. They look at me expectantly. "S?!" I say. "OK!"
So, now I'm rolling with two random Mexican dudes. They speak almost zero English, and I speak almost zero Spanish, and yet the communication flows.
When one of them points forward and asks, "Santa Rosalia?" I happily nod, as this town is on my way. "Por qu? Santa Rosalia?" I ask them in turn,
thrilled to hold up my end of the conversation by simply placing an adverb in front of the town's name.
I catch enough of their reply?"f?tbol" and "militar" and "Oaxaca" stand out?to gather that they are from Oaxaca, have been posted at an army base here
in Baja, play soccer for a military-affiliated team, and have a match they need to get to in Santa Rosalia. So far so good, but now I get ambitious
and try to tell them that I like soccer, too. The phrase I want is "juego al f?tbol," meaning "I play soccer." But instead I keep repeating (I only
realize this much later) "jugo de f?tbol," which would mean (if anything) "soccer juice." They nod slowly.
(I like to imagine that they interpreted this as a profound, complicated metaphor. "Ah yes, my philosophical gringo friend," they thought to
themselves, "we, too, are the juice of soccer. We are all of us the juices of soccer.")
After 90 minutes of blessed companionship, I drop off Blanco and Luis Alberto. (Yes, I did manage to ask their names?though I'm not certain if these
are last names or first names.) It's dark out by now, so I find a room for the night and take a walk around Santa Rosalia.
This is like entering a time machine. It's a warm evening in the tiny town, and there are families out strolling together down the main street,
greeting everybody they pass with some pleasant words. Teenagers flirt in the town square, and all sing along to an acoustic guitar.
I get a mild scare when I see an elderly man?who is very clearly mentally ill?staggering down the middle of the street with a pistol tucked into his
waistband. But everyone seems to know him and like him. He's a shared responsibility: the town loony. In a big American city, there's no doubt he'd be
institutionalized (or jailed). But here he's just a cute, eccentric character. (Who might one day fire bullets at a crowd of schoolchildren.)
The next morning, I drive to a spot recommended in the guidebook?a place that rents bungalows on the beach. But when I arrive, there's a sign that
says it's closed. Nothing else here looks appealing, and I'm not really sure where to go. Mostly out of frustration, I just turn down the next
unmarked dirt road I see with no idea where it will lead me. I find myself ascending a steep, rocky pass. There are large boulders and sinkholes in
the road, and frankly there is no way in Hades my compact sedan should be attempting this. Somehow, I bounce and shimmy up to the ridgeline, but
coming down the other side is worse. I am just beating the fuzznuck out of this rental car. And I am loving it. Eat it, Avis.
At last, I make landfall on a sliver of beach hidden between two rocky points. You can't even see this spot from the main road. There's no one here
but a middle-aged gringo who's tinkering under the hood of a rusted-out van. "OK to camp here?" I ask. "Just pick a spot!" he shouts with a wide grin.
I pitch my tent on the sand about 10 feet from the lapping high tide. This friendly guy and his wife introduce themselves. It turns out they're from
Vancouver, British Columbia, and they come to camp on this particular, semi-secret beach for several weeks each year. The guy offers me a beer, and
soon enough we're standing waist deep in the crystalline waters of the Sea of Cortez, sipping cans of Tecate, soaking up the sunshine. As we chat, a
6-inch-long fish leaps out of the water between us and flops backs down with a splash. A flock of pelicans swoops by, skimming low over the waves.
The rest of the day passes by pretty much like this. I borrow the guy's mask and fins and take a tipsy snorkel around the cove (spotting a stingray
and some gorgeous tropical fish). The guy and his wife cook me dinner to welcome me to the beach and then we talk until it gets dark. I wander along
the pitch-black sand, take a leak on a cactus (praying no scorpion feels the need to take revenge on me), and fall asleep in my tent. It's among the
deepest slumbers of my life.
When I wake, it's the break of dawn, and the sun is lifting itself up out of the sea. Soon enough, I've waded back into that water again. There's
really nothing else to do here?other than marvel at the natural beauty; kayak through calm, clear waters; and feel insanely at ease with the universe
and your place in it.
Standing there in the aquamarine shallows, with colorful fish swimming between my ankles, I realize that something is missing. For the first time in
quite a while, I crack a beer before 9 a.m.
May I propose a toast? Here's to unmarked dirt roads.
-------------------------------
Subject: Unexpected Roadblocks, Entirely Expected Illness, Cataloging Gringos, and Riding Dwarves
Posted Thursday, Dec. 15, 2005, at 6:59 AM ET
Bah?a Concepci?n to Todos Santos
It's time to (reluctantly) leave this idyllic beach where I've been camping. But there's a problem. I can't get out.
This morning, a British family in a massive Mercedes camper came bounding loudly over the ridge and then rolled to a stop on our little beach. They
got out of this mobile mansion and walked around for a few minutes, but then they quickly decided to leave again. On their way back over the hill?on
the treacherous, steep dirt path that is the only means of egress to the highway?their camper suddenly lurched and stopped, and the engine went dead.
Much indecipherable British cussing.
It soon becomes clear that the camper's not going anywhere for a while. As a consequence, I'm not going anywhere, either. There's no room to pass this
beast of a vehicle on either side (that is, without tumbling down a cliff into the Sea of Cortez). So, I settle in, enjoy another dip in the cove, and
sip a beer to pass the time. After about 45 minutes of the Brit dad toiling with a hydraulic jack (he refused all assistance when it was offered), I
hear the camper roar to life and pull away. Free at last. Lesson: Do not make plans in Baja, because the universe will throw something in your
path?e.g., a gazillion-ton diesel camper.
My own car somehow negotiates the off-road slalom up the hill, and then it's back to the highway. When I reach beautiful La Paz, I check into a hotel
just off the waterfront promenade (the malec?n). A delicious dinner, a skull-tingling margarita, and I'm off to bed.
But not off to a pleasant slumber land. My dreams turn dark and ornate and stressful. In one, someone calls me on the phone and (though in my dream
logic I know he is trying to schedule a lunch) just shouts unintelligible things over and over at earsplitting volume. Meanwhile, I'm trying to
balance eight or nine tennis rackets?and several cans of tennis balls?in my arms while still holding the phone to my ear to endure more yelling. Also,
my mother is in the next room, huddled with some type of shady cabal, plotting the murder of a prominent politician.
OK, a tad odd. But there is more taco than terror to these visions. I wake up sweating, with my stomach a spouting volcano of acid?for I am ill.
"D?nde est? la farmacia?" I ask the desk clerk when I manage to hobble downstairs.
Thank goodness for Mexican pharmacies. I buy a 500 milligram Cipro regimen for dirt-cheap, then find an Internet cafe to look up the indications and
dosage (because I can't suss out the Spanish on the package). Usually, I enter a Mexican pharmacy to casually inquire about prescription opiates
("Vicodin, por favor? Como Codeine, pero m?s fuerte."). But this is even more useful!
Feeling the antibiotic doing its noble work, I hit the road again. I'm headed back to the Pacific side of the peninsula to a town called Todos Santos.
It's supposed to be a gringo artist's community?the place where sculptors and watercolorists fled to once Santa Fe, N.M., got played out and
over-touristed.
On arrival in Todos Santos, I see instantly that over-tourist-i-zation is just a matter of time here, too. The town is completely gringo-fied. There
are the tacky, tequila-pounding gringos in jean shorts and mustaches. There are the bourgeois, NPR gringos in khaki pants that seem entirely
constructed of pockets. Perhaps worst of all, there are the gringos who look remarkably like ? me. This greatly reduces my sense of superiority.
Still, the town has a lot of charm. Once the day-trippers from Cabo leave, it gets quiet and calm. I can see the appeal. And so can developers:
Real-estate offices are everywhere. Their windows are lined with pictures of gorgeous beachfront lots at $100,000 apiece. One agency posts a sign:
"Wir sprechen Deutsch."
I'm not interested in a condo, but I'm very interested in a surfing lesson. My pasty, East Coast soul has always longed to ride some waves. When I was
in Waikiki last summer, I just couldn't bring myself to take a group lesson side-by-side with throngs of fat American tourists. But Todos Santos seems
a perfect place to learn: consistent, nonscary waves paired with relatively uncrowded beaches.
For $35 (an absurd amount in the context of Baja prices?but to haggle seems so un-surfer), I get an hourlong lesson at Playa Los Cerritos. I'm handed
a heavy, forgiving, beginners board. Mario (my friendly but somewhat disinterested instructor) helps me paddle out into the waves.
It turns out that surfing?at least on a novice level?is sort of like a younger, buffer man's golf. For instance, you often must wake at dawn to have
any hope of participating. Everyone obsesses over expensive gear. And ultimately, you end up spending hours in a funk of bitter frustration, all for a
few moments of bliss that, with luck, will tide you over until next time. (On the plus side for golf, there are rarely any limb-eating sharks
patrolling the fairways. But there are rarely any bikini-clad surfer chicks, either.)
If you're considering a surfing lesson, these are my tips: 1) Be prepared to have the snot knocked out of you. Literally. The waves kick you when
you're up and (much worse) when you're down, crashing one after another. One monster breaker knocked me off my board, thrashed me against the sea
floor (abrading my forehead), and tore my watch clean off my wrist. (I never did manage to find it.) I came up grateful to be alive, eagerly
anticipating how much more grateful I would be when I could remember my name and basic life history. 2) Wear sunscreen. I have no further comment
about this, except to say: Stop touching my shoulder, butt wipe! Owwwwww! Mercy! 3) Consider not taking a surfing lesson.
It's exhausting, you likely won't be much good at it, and you'll end up bruised and broken. Over the course of three hours, I spent a cumulative 75
seconds standing up on my board. The rest of the time was spent paddling headlong into waves, floating aimlessly while getting a sunburn, or gasping
for air after being abused by the ocean's whims.
All that said, it's an amazing sport. You're half athlete, half naturalist?gauging the currents, reading the shapes of the breaks. And the community
is incredibly friendly. Once Mario left me to practice on my own, I got more useful pointers from a random Aussie dude who happened to paddle by.
Would I surf again? Yes. But I'd stop first at a Mexican pharmacy to prepare. "Vicodin, por favor?"
-------------------------------
Subject: Exploited Iguanas, Horrific Dance Floors, Pleated Shorts
Posted Friday, Dec. 16, 2005, at 11:35 AM ET
I've reached the end of my journey. My final stop is Cabo San Lucas at Baja's southernmost tip. And here's the thing about Cabo San Lucas: It is
appalling.
You drive the length of this marvelous peninsula, observing along the way all sorts of breathtaking natural beauty and quaint bits of Baja culture ?
and then you get to Cabo, and the entire experience gets distilled into repulsive commerce. For example: In Cabo, Baja's vast deserts are reduced to
an iguana sitting on a man's shoulder in the midst of a touristy promenade wearing a sombrero. (To be clear: Both the man and the iguana wear
sombreros. The iguana's is much smaller. Also, to be clear: The man expects that you will pay him money for the thrill of seeing an iguana in a
sombrero.)
When I go out to a downtown restaurant, every table around me is stocked with corn-fed, well-marbled, roaring-drunk Americans. For some reason, as
their meals end, they all take group photographs with their waiters?throwing their beefy arms over the waiters' slight shoulders. (It's not unlike the
photos these same tourists pose for in the marina, with a just-caught swordfish trapped between their paws.) "You the man, Nestor! You the man!" they
shout. Nestor smiles obligingly, squints at the camera flash, and returns to clearing away their dirty plates.
I can't see why you would willingly spend a moment in this dreadful place. It's where the world's most awful people come to indulge their most awful
instincts. Minutes after I arrive here, I want to leave. As soon as I can, I make the quick drive to nearby San Jose del Cabo?a genuine Mexican town
with an adorable central plaza, non-kitschy restaurants, and some lovely beaches of its own.
Also, it has a protected estuary. Estuaries are probably my favorite bodies of water?better than brooks, fjords, inlets, sounds, and channels
combined. This particular estuary is the best I've ever seen. There's an osprey turning wide circles, sometimes dive-bombing the water and flapping
back up with a glimmering fish in its talons. There are egrets coasting over the marsh like paper airplanes. Ducks paddle around and honk at each
other.
I could relax here all day, but I've got to get back to the Giggling Marlin in time for the 3-for-1 rail drinks special.
In seriousness, I do feel obliged to at least take a peek at the Cabo nightlife while I'm here. If only for the sake of completeness. So, I drive
back, park the car at my hotel, and walk into the heart of the tourist quarter.
Thankfully, the touts tend to ignore me, even as they hassle the other gringos no end. There's something about my face, it seems, that suggests I am
unlikely to purchase a tequila-themed tank top. I wander past Cabo Wabo, past the Hard Rock Caf?, even past the Giggling Marlin ? and step into the
legendary El Squid Roe.
It's like a thunderdome of binge drinking and sexual aggression. Two floors of vomit-encrusted plywood. Margaritas served in yard-long tubes.
If I drink enough, I figure, I will start to feel at home. So, I'm pounding away. Around me, the place fills up with gaggles of shrieking women in
halter tops and enormously paunchy men in polo shirts embroidered with the names of their cabin cruisers. Cabo has perhaps the world's highest
concentration of white people in pleated shorts.
The DJ, for his part, is only playing songs that I hate. The dance floor is a Hieronymus Bosch triptych. It's not that I'm against hedonism and
excess?quite the contrary, in fact. It's just that I'd rather not watch these arts practiced by a mob of unattractive chuckleheads. When "YMCA" surges
through the sound system and everyone screams with delight, I can take no more. Adieu, horrific nightclub dystopia. I weave tipsily through the
streets and back to my room.
And that's it for Baja. Tomorrow I catch a plane home.
Did I find the adventure I sought? Sort of. The guidebooks essentially warn that driving the peninsula should not be undertaken without three spare
fan belts, an air compressor, 600 gallons of water, and an elephant gun. Yet I found driving here to be no more difficult than driving in the American
Southwest. (Although the gas stations are farther apart in Baja, necessitating a bit more forethought.)
It's pretty hard to get lost when there's only one paved road. Even if you wander off it, you'll smack into an ocean within 75 miles in either
direction. If the sun rises over this water, you'll know it's the Sea of Cortez; if the sun sets into it, you'll know you've hit the Pacific.
I never felt the slightest bit unsafe in terms of crime. Actually, I felt much safer here than I ever do at home in D.C. The people are laid back and
friendly, and if you speak just a touch of Spanish, you can mostly make yourself understood. I wish I spoke more, of course?I might have enjoyed more
profound interactions with the locals?but then I wish I spoke French and Chinese and Hindi, too.
I guess the thing I'll remember most is the nothingness. The opportunity to pull over in the middle of the desert, take a leak by the side of the
road, and see no cars in either direction for mile upon mile. No billboards. No rest stops. No McDonald's every 15 exits. In fact, no exits at all.
Just the occasional ungraded dirt road winding off to some hidden beach behind the hills.
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BornFisher
Super Nomad
Posts: 2103
Registered: 1-11-2005
Location: K-38 Santa Martha/Encinitas
Member Is Offline
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That was great! Another catches "Baja Fever"!!!
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bajajudy
Elite Nomad
Posts: 6886
Registered: 10-4-2004
Location: San Jose del Cabo,BCS
Member Is Offline
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Most entertaining!
How many times can you say....been there done that.
Thanks for the story, BN
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John M
Super Nomad
Posts: 1908
Registered: 9-3-2003
Location: California High Desert
Member Is Offline
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Neat story
With another style of adventure to say the least. Cool report! John M
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rpleger
Super Nomad
Posts: 1087
Registered: 3-12-2005
Location: H. Mulegé, BCS
Member Is Offline
Mood: Was good.
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Good one........................thanks
Richard on the Hill
*ABROAD*, adj. At war with savages and idiots. To be a Frenchman abroad is to
be miserable; to be an American abroad is to make others miserable.
-- Ambrose Bierce, _The Enlarged Devil\'s Dictionary_
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