On the road – in the other California
http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/2010/aug/21/road-trip-baja-...
Mexico's Baja California is perfect for a road trip – the landscape is out of this world, you can camp on the beach, and the peninsula is so narrow
you can't get lost.
Some friends and I set off from the chaotic border town of Tijuana with a shiny new hire car and some mixed messages about the 780 miles of peninsula
that snaked south. Although it is often described as a beautiful part of Mexico, we'd also heard about brutal drug cartels and gang violence, about
spoilt Californian kids and their spring break excesses and about ritzy resorts with more media-hungry celebs than an Elton John charity gala – and
were determined to avoid them all.
Coasting south on México 1, the transpeninsular highway, the real Baja California beckoned. Passing through several one-horse, two-taquería towns was
a transition from US-friendly to Mexico proper. The paint began to peel and the roads crumble. Tumbleweed joined us in the fast lane as sandy roads
snaked down to fishing villages and the Pacific. We saw guys hanging out roadside with white Stetsons squashed onto oil-black hair, and
straight-backed men casually riding their horses into lopsided beer-shacks. Everywhere, colourful, wonky, hand-painted signs advertised tasty pismo
clams, and carnitas – cartoons of laughing pigs in sunglasses and jaunty hats bathing in the lard that will fry them.
At San Quintin, 187 miles south of the border, we found a campsite hidden down a dusty track, beside the ocean. It was nearly empty, and its owner,
Fidel, was downbeat: "You information people about my place," he said. "Look. You see how beautiful it is. But no one comes any more, the economy is
so bad."
We pitched our tents and walked across the sand to the water. Weird black silhouettes drifted across the cloudless evening sky: pelicans,
prehistoric-looking against the burning red backdrop, paused, then launched their bodies into the grey sea. On the shore, a group of young men
unravelled a huge net and charged into the waves to dredge out twitching, glinting fish.
We woke to watch the sun rise over the dunes then, with sleep and cold clinging to us, we drove to Mama Espinosa's, an hour down the road, in El
Rosario. Steve McQueen was a regular at Mama E's, where he'd stop to fill up on coffee and lobster burritos during the Baja 1000, the wacky off-road
thousand-mile-plus race, and every square inch of wall is covered with signed photos of four-wheel mayhem. Fired up by the stories and by huevos
méxicanos (scrambled eggs with tomato, onion and green chilli for the red, white and green of the Mexican flag), we hit the road again.
From here, the México 1 cut away from the Pacific coast and into the Valle de los Cirios, carving up jagged hills and into the Desierto Central.
Suddenly there were fewer cars, people, pigs wearing sunglasses; and more focus. The big skies, rocks and the winding, pot-holed road became the
focus.
Searching for ancient Cochimí Indian cave paintings near the desert outpost of Cataviña, we parked up and walked between giant boulders, bulbous
cardón cacti (the ones in all the cartoons) and straggles of cirios, their scrawny trunks reaching more than 10 metres in the air and a spurt of
yellow blossom dangling forlornly at the top. We found the paintings, believed to be thousands of years old, on the ceiling in a cool little chamber,
simple drawings of hunters and the sun, animals and shooting stars.
We sped south-east through unexpectedly green desertscapes; walls of cactus, cirio and elephant trees parted by the arrow-straight asphalt. As night
approached, the plugs of volcanoes jutted into the purple-orange sky. The last 60 miles of our mammoth day's driving, winding down the Sierra de San
Francisco from the desert plains to the coast, were a dreamlike blur of cliffs and men in cowboy hats.
Arriving at the beach near Mulegé, we pitched our tent and fell into the sea. Sparks of phosphorescence radiated from our arms and shooting stars
crisscrossed the sky.
We spent a few days there, living like contented castaways. At our campsite we pitched tents under some threadbare thatched palapas with a tangle of
mangrove behind us. There were a few American old-timers in RVs round the headland, and a couple of well-travelled yachts sheltering in the calm
waters, but mostly it was just us, the fish and the pelicans. Provisions come from the beach cafe round the bay, or from our doorstep, where we dug up
clams from the wet sands and cooked them on our bonfire, washed down with Tecate beer.
It was hard to leave, but soon we had another 80 miles under our wheels and arrived in Loreto. Founded in 1697 this was the original capital of the
Californias (Baja and Alta); a thriving hub when LA and San Francisco were mere backwaters. The town's august history was still visible in its
architecture: its promenade, church, town hall and well-manicured streets, and there was a fine mission museum too. But for us, the highlight was the
food, in particular El Rey del Taco's fish and beef tacos, filled from great bowls of red chilli, fresh coriander, chopped tomato, shredded cabbage,
lettuce, lime and salsa verde by Francisco, the cheery Taco King.
We spent a couple of days kayaking in Loreto's 800 square-mile marine park, paddling three miles to the deserted Isla Danzante, to camp and drink
homemade margaritas under dramatic cliffs, surrounded by aquamarine waters, our only company clouds of yellow butterflies. We snorkelled waters
teeming with fish – at times shoals clattered to the surface from the deep, like rain showers in reverse. There were cherry red crabs, clown fish,
flying fish, dolphins, sleeping sea lions, manta rays and puffer fish.
Our final stop was San Javier, where we'd heard there was a religious festival taking place – a fitting goal in our search for the "true" Baja. The
Fiesta de San Javier was a riot of live music and dancing, bucking broncos and shooting alleys, stalls selling cowboy hats and lucha libre masks,
tripe tacos and "beer-bloody-marys".
The finale was what we'd all remember: El Torro, the human firecracker, running through the whooping crowd, blazing fireworks tied to his back and a
crazed look in his eye. A burning man wasn't entirely what we had expected from a religious festival in a 300-year-old mission. But then we had
already learned that you can never guess what lies ahead in Baja California – the best policy is just to buckle up and enjoy the ride.
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* Take a Greyhound bus (greyhound.com) from LA or San Diego to Tijuana airport via the Mesa de Otay border crossing; hire a car at the airport
with Thrifty (thrifty.com) or Europcar (europcar.com) – a better option than hiring in the US. Camping sites with very basic facilities are often
free; none of the sites visited on this trip cost more than US$5. Camping in the marine park is free but you need to register at the reserve office in
Loreto; a wristband allowing you to kayak costs US$5 per day. The San Javier festival runs for three days, culminating on 3 December.
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