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ferdic1
Junior Nomad
Posts: 26
Registered: 12-14-2003
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Bliss and Bandidos in Baja
(Written 1/10/03; posted here 12/17/03)Bliss and Bandits: A Baja Holiday
In the late morning of Christmas Eve, our quiet American country road suddenly tumbled out of the California Sierras into the Mexican city of Tecate,
pressed by mountains against the U.S. border. Home of the world-famous beer, we found it a colorful hive of activity, an abrupt change from the sleepy
miles we had just traversed. Thronged with street vendors, battered pickups and people in a festive mood, its main thoroughfare seemed too narrow and
crowded for our big motorhome and the Saturn it towed, so we picked our way cautiously through the boisterous commerce for two blocks until we noticed
a grimy sign pointing hard left to Ensenada. This was a tight turn for the motorhome and Saturn, and our now eastward direction had us straining for
another sign redirecting us southwest, where we knew Ensenada awaited us on the distant Pacific coast. But, as we were to discover is typical of Baja,
there was no second sign.
At the next intersection, we saw most of the traffic was turning sharp right, so we did the same. The festive spirit of Tecate?s boisterous downtown
rapidly disappeared beneath the gray grime of massive roadworks ahead, and with the rest of the traffic we left the paved road surface and began a
tortuous passage up a badly potholed dirt sideroad onto the highway construction area that was blanketing the southern edge of town with dust.
The motorhome lurched, bumped and groaned over the crest, vying with nimbler vehicles for precious inches of leeway amid roaring construction
equipment, dump trucks and billowing clouds of dust. On top, there was still no pavement, but plenty of rocky dirt and potholes so we picked our way
slowly southward for about a mile as the road broadened and Mexican trucks and cars jostled around and past us on both sides.
Finally we were at the top of another hill, Tecate behind us, and a paved asphalt surface beneath us again. We were soon in attractive undulating
countryside as the highway rolled southwest, still with no signs to tell us we were headed to Ensenada. We started to worry. Is this the right road
after all? Since we had seen no other options, we pressed ahead in blind hope until, about 10 kilometers further on, we saw the magic name and
breathed a hearty sigh of relief.
The traffic had thinned out, too, and we were able to relax. Until a huge truck lurched suddenly toward us around a curve and we realized the road had
become two narrow lanes, giving barely enough room for two such bulky vehicles to pass each other. Then we remembered the guidebook?s advice for RVers
on Baja highways, which are about 18 inches narrower in each direction than U.S. highways: When seeing an approaching truck, or becoming aware that
one behind you is about to pass, pull over to the extreme right and slow almost to a stop until the truck has passed. Unlike U.S. highways, those on
the Baja peninsula generally have no shoulders, so there is no margin of error when two large vehicles like an 18-wheeler and a motorhome pass each
other.
This was to make almost all of our driving in Baja a torture of concentration, and incredibly slow since 90% of the approaching trucks not only hogged
the centerline but drove faster than was safe.
This latter fact was attested to by the number of wrecked trucks and other vehicles we were to see on the roadsides. Some squeezes were so tight that
driving the motorhome felt exactly like threading a needle, only with your life at stake. Our 38ft. motorhome is 102 inches wide!
About 20 miles out of Tecate we passed through some of the most beautiful vineyards we have ever seen. These were operated by the L.A. Cetto Winery,
Valle de Guadelupe. Later, we would find their products in an Ensenada supermarket, El Gigante, and we purchased a chardonnay. It was superb ? light
and bright, faintly aromatic and to my taste perfectly balanced. In fact, the best chardonnay I can remember. We have not been able to find it since
we returned to the U.S., and Customs limited us to bringing in the equivalent by volume of only two bottles each for all alcoholic beverages.
Ensenada turned out to be a very large city, with lots of familiar U.S. retail chainstores and fast foods. They would be the last we would see as we
progressed southward.
The first thing I noticed about Ensenada was its badly broken and potholed pavements on the four-lane divided coastal highway (Mexico 1) on the way
into town. The second thing was the bright and prosperous-looking downtown with impressive dockside plaza containing three giant bronze heads of
Mexican heroes.
We were surprised to see no Christmas decorations of the type all U.S. cities, towns and villages flaunt on Christmas Eve (and for months beforehand,
actually!). When we found our downtown campground, it was almost deserted ? just three or four travel trailers, and us the only motorhome. A young man
in his 20s took $20 (U.S.) from us just as another young man bounded up the steps to the office brandishing a plastic bag full of lobsters. He wanted
$20 each for them. Assuming they were fresh, I was about to buy one when I thought better of it and checked first with Sheila, still in the motorhome
outside. She was afraid of possible bacterial problems with such fare, and so I declined the young man?s offer.
Like the rest of town, the campground had no Christmas decorations either. Indeed, it was a dreary place, with every site bearing dark puddles of
water where RVs had left ruts in the soft ground, which was a mixture of sand and gray dirt. It had once been an attractive RV resort, with well
laid-out sites and shade trees, but now it seemed to have fallen into a state of dilapidation. When we ran the dogs, we had to be careful to keep them
out of the mud.
Night fell dully. For Christmas Eve, it seemed a big letdown. The only television we could pick up was, quite expectedly, Mexican, but none of the
programs seemed to be about Christmas. Later, we heard fireworks going off nearby, all around us. Apparently that?s how Mexicans celebrate Christmas!
Sheila broke open a premature Christmas present ? a full collection of Rogers & Hammerstein DVDs ? thus solving our entertainment problems. We watched
?State Fair? and then went to bed, drifting off to sleep to the continuing barrage of fire crackers. I don?t know when they stopped.
The next morning, bright and early, we set off for points south. The badly cracked and potholed city freeway rapidly gave way to a narrow ribbon of
asphalt that would last us the rest of our journey to Mulege (Moo-la-HAY) in subtropical central Baja, on the Gulf of California, formerly known by
the more romantic name of the Sea of Cortez.
?Harrowing? is the best word to describe Mexico 1 from a motorhome driver?s viewpoint. Except for two relatively short, straight stretches in the Baja
highlands which allow a top speed of 80 kph (50 mph), its top speed is 60 kph (38 mph), and in the many towns slowed to 40 kph (27 mph) or less. For
someone who has always budgeted his travel time on the basis of averaging 60 mph, this was quite a setback. Not that anybody but us was observing
these limits! Our guide book advised scrupulous observance as foreigners of the posted speed limits, despite what everyone else was doing, and having
heard horror stories of Mexican jails, we were not about to disregard that advice ? especially when we saw other RVers doing the same.
The towns we encountered south of Ensenada were all alike ? straight out of any old Hollywood movie?s Mexico set.
Extraordinarily wide, straight main streets fronted on each side by small businesses and markets, all of which opened onto expanses of dirt probably
50 feet from the paved highway. These frontage roads served both as parking bays for customers? cars and thoroughfares for foot and vehicular traffic
on either side of Mexico 1. Everywhere we saw stray dogs, most of them apparently of the same short-haired Mexican native breed, a bit like a scrawny,
small yellow Labrador with a more pointed and less intelligent head.
Side streets which separated the commercial blocks also were expanses of dirt and muddy bogs. From it all arose clouds of brown dust, blown up by
occasional wind gusts and more frequently by the wheels of trucks, cars, and the ever-present and very dilapidated buses.
Baja citizens, it seems, have two main choices of transportation: buses and their feet. Only a minority seemed to have viable cars ? although most of
the houses in the backstreets had old cars parked in front, we were left to guess that they were either out of gas or broken down.
Which brings me to the subject of gasoline. There is only one brand in Mexico: the state monopoly, Pemex, which employs attendants to pump the gas for
you (you are not allowed to pump your own). These apparently poorly paid individuals expect to be tipped for their efforts, and our guidebook warned
us to watch them carefully lest they failed to zero the pump before fueling your vehicle, thereby adding the previous customer?s total to yours and
pocketing the difference (like most Baja retail establishments, Pemex stations don?t accept credit cards). In our many refuelings, I encountered this
practice only once, and was glad I was there to catch it before it created a dispute.
Still on the subject of gasoline, Pemex sells two grades ? Magna, which is allegedly 87 octane, and Premium, which is supposed to be higher, although
I could never find out how many octane. Our motorhome is tuned to run on Standard Unleaded, which is usually 87 octane in the U.S. I found the Pemex
Magna caused the motorhome?s engine to ping painfully whenever it encountered a hill, and there were to be endless hills ahead of us on the road to
Mulege. The price was a bit higher than U.S. gas ($1.47 a gallon).
All the towns had another thing in common, besides wide, dusty highway frontages: their approaches at either end were strewn with accumulated garbage.
At Mulege, which is better-off than most others we saw, we discovered that the town fathers had established two designated garbage dump areas beside
the highway at the northern entrance to the town, one old and disused and a new one opposite. ?Someone? periodically burns the town trash piles of
Mulege, but we saw no evidence of this in other towns.
Before we had gone very far from Ensenada, we found ourselves at the end of a stalled line of traffic that was being routed off the highway at a
Mexican Army inspection station. As we inched forward, we could see swarms of green-clad soldiers, most sporting automatic weapons (machine guns) who
were opening car trunks and questioning their occupants. When our turn came, a soldier asked to come aboard but when we opened the door for him, he
took fright at the sight of our over-friendly dogs. After we had restrained them, he came up the steps to look around. He must have been no more than
18, very smart in his fresh clean uniform. He could not speak English, and we could not speak Spanish, so his questions were pretty pointless. I
escorted him to the rear, where he peered into the bathroom and under the bed, opened some drawers, and pointed to pictures of David?s family we have
on our wall. I could not understand his question, but he was smiling, and so I said: ?Grandchildren.?
?Si,? he answered, smiling, although I doubt he understood what I had said. I, at least, knew what ?Si? meant!
Then he made his way forward to the door, turned and asked in English: ?Arms??
?No,? I said, with a laugh.
He turned and stepped out. It was the first of seven such military inspections we would encounter on our trip. Apparently, the soldiers are looking
for guns and/or drugs. However, it was my observation that their searches were so perfunctory as to be useless. I would not hesitate to bring a gun
the next time I come to Baja because, as I will relate later, we ran into real bandidos on our return journey and could well have needed a gun. There
are plenty of places in a motorhome to successfully hide a handgun. And the youth and obvious inexperience of all the soldiers we saw (hundreds in
all) gives me confidence that it would not be found.
If all this gives you a fearful picture of Baja, it would a false one. Overall we found more than enough splendor and genuine hospitality and
happiness to compensate. The Pacific seascapes from Mexico 1 wherever it came close enough to see them were awe-inspiring ? miles of open,
unpopulated, clean beaches and spectacular sand dunes, magnificent capes and bays dotted with enchanting islands made us ache for more time to
explore. Of course, the few roads into these beaches are unpaved and would not support the motorhome, or most conventional cars. That?s why Baja is
known as off-road vehicle (four-wheel drive) country!
In San Quintin, we left the highway and took a three-mile side road to the Old Mill Campground. Like all of its type, this side road was unpaved, and
we soon discovered it was strewn with huge muddy bogs created by a hurricane that had passed through the area a few days before. This made us very
apprehensive, but not being able to turn around without first detaching the Saturn, we waited and watched while other vehicles plowed through the
first mud puddle.
Seeing that they did not come to grief, we ?bit the bullet? and plowed in ourselves, slow enough that we might not swamp the ignition and fast enough
that we had some momentum should the bottom prove slippery. The first bog proved unable to stop us, so we proceeded to tackle the half-dozen others
that lay ahead. By the time we got to the campground, the motorhome?s front and sides were caked with red mud, and the hapless Saturn behind us could
hardly be recognized.
At the campground, which had a splendid view of a vast lagoon and wetlands shore, as well as the distant inland high country, the first order of
business was washing the Saturn so that we could use it for sightseeing. The second was exercising the dogs. And the third was a sumptuous and
amazingly inexpensive meal of fresh seafood at the Old Mill Restaurant as the sun went down behind four extinct shoreline volcanoes that shield this
idyllic spot (but not its access road!) from Pacific storms.
Knowing that the motorhome faced the same mudbaths on its way out, I elected not to wash it. We stayed two days at this campground, enjoying a trip
into San Quintin for restocking our supply of pesos, beer and groceries, and a bit of sightseeing.
Then we set out further south toward Guerrero Negro, in hopes of doing some whale-watching. The countryside continued along the coast and through
farmlands and more dusty villages before turning inland, to spectacular mountain views and cardon-filled desert land, then dry plains.
Guerrero Negro turned out to be on the edge of vast salt pans where a huge salt mining industry exists. A fair-sized town, it is named after the
19th-century wreck of an American whaling ship, the Black Warrior on a Pacific reef outside Scammons Lagoon, which is the birthing place of the gray
whale at the end of its winter migration from the Bering Strait off the Aleutians and northern Japan.
We camped at the headquarters of the whale-watching tours in Guerrero Negro ? a beautifully equipped motel and restaurant that had its own general
store, complete with a good selection of wines and spirits. The restaurant served the best food we ate in our entire trip.
Whale watching the next day was an unforgettable experience, right down to the fractured English of the guide who took us out on a bus to the small
motorboat at Scammon?s Lagoon. He spoke in both English and Spanish, apologizing to the several Italians and Germans on board for not being able to
speak in their languages as well. As it turns out, however, had he been able to accommodate them in that way, he would not have had time to complete
his illustrated spiel by the time the bus got to the boats. We learned all kinds of interesting things about the whales, how they were slaughtered by
the thousands in the lagoon before whaling was banned, how Mexico was the first country ban whaling, how baby whales are born and then suckled on milk
that is too thick to leak away in the seawater, etc.
The busload of passengers filled two boats (12 each), and out we went for three hours. We saw two gray whales, and got very close on several occasions
? so close that Sheila and I were afraid either one might surface under our boat and tip us out. But we did not get close enough, as others have, to
actually pat a whale.
I had always thought (mainly from my scholarship in Disney comics) that whales have a single blow hole. We got close enough to see that they have a
pair of blow holes, just as we and all mammals have a pair of nostrils.
After two nights in Guerrero Negro, we headed up into high country again on the final run into Mulege. Much of the first leg of this trip was shrouded
in sea mist from the Pacific, and as the narrow road wound its way through tight turns on the hillsides, we were reduced to a crawl.
When daylight finally shone through, we were on a high plateau, again surrounded on both sides by spectacular scenery and native plant life. In the
high country away from the coast, the Baja scenery is wild, beautiful desert. The further south you drive, the more lush and wonderful it becomes,
sporting over 500 different species of native plants. It?s the most prolific desert country in the world, according to knowledgeable locals.
We thrilled to see miles upon miles of boojum trees amid the cardon cacti, ocotillo and prickly pear. Mature boojums are about two feet in diameter at
the base and taper to just a few inches about 15ft. to 20ft up. Their whitish, papery bark is pierced liberally with dark green, somewhat leafy
sprouts about two feet long where the trunk is thickest, to about three inches or less at the top. They are unique to Baja, and when mature tend to
arch over until their tops hit the ground, whereupon they seed another boojum tree.
The more we traversed this wild and empty land, the more we wished we could stop and explore, and the more frustrated we became about our lack of an
adequate off-road vehicle. Beyond the lush roadside vegetation soared beautiful dry hills and rocky mountains on all sides. Occasionally, we drove
past dry lakebeds and vast ?forests? of boulders that rival anything we have seen in U.S.
Around noon we began the most dangerous descent on Mexico 1, down into the large eastern town of Santa Rosalia (Rose-a-LEAH). This I estimated as a
1-in-10 grade, and with the dead weight of the Saturn pushing us, I was in first gear all the way down, with the engine screaming and gasping
ominously.
Since a brake fire in mountains when the motorhome was just a few weeks old, it has been my practice to rarely use the brakes, saving them for dire
necessity (as a result, this motorhome at 112,000 miles was still on its original brakes; the last mechanic who looked at them estimated we have
20,000 miles left on them).
The Gulf of California coastline burst into view, aquamarine and green in the shallows, studded with beautiful capes, bays and green, forested
islands. Santa Rosalia is a grimy former steel town now trying to convert to tourism. We drove right through and reached Mulege half an hour later,
checking into a grassy, palm-studded campground, The Orchard, on the banks of the Mulege River.
Downtown Mulege (pop. 6,000) is as quaintly Mexican and clean as anything we have seen. It has a large colony of American retirees, several Internet
cafes, nice restaurants, beautiful climate and a small airfield used exclusively by gringos who fly their light planes to and from their U.S. home
bases. This is a town where we found bliss and communal peace unknown since childhood (when, in Tasmania, I probably called it ?boring?).
All our neighbors were pleasant, interesting and hospitable. It seems that if you get a bunch of like-minded gringos together in such an isolated
place, it brings out the best in everyone.
We stayed a week there, and enjoyed it so much we began serious inquiries with a local realtor about retiring there. There is satellite service to the
Internet.
After a morning?s shopping for pesos in bustling, quaint Santa Rosalia (there are no banks in Mulege), and several sightseeing excursions to
enchanting inlets and headlands south of town, it came sadly time to end our holiday. That?s when we encountered bandidos.
After detaching the Saturn in Santa Rosalia because of the steep hill north of town that had caused us so much anxiety a week before, we proceeded on
our way, only to be stopped for over 40 minutes by police clearing a wreck on that same hill.
Under way again, I found the motorhome made the uphill grade much more easily than it had made the descent in the opposite direction. At the top, I
began looking for places to attach the Saturn.
The trouble with Mexico 1 is that its asphalt pavement is about six inches or more thick, and without any shoulders that means a sheer drop of that
depth to native ground at the side. Frequently, the desert itself has eroded even further below the pavement, sometimes meaning a vertical drop as
much as a foot or more. Getting off and back on the pavement when you find a clear, level patch of ground on which to do so can be a challenge.
Finally I found on the left side of a long flat stretch a suitable hard-dirt area onto which I could both drive the motorhome and the very low-slung
Saturn behind, without difficulty.
Slowing to about 10 mph (in a 60 kph zone), I looked in the rearview mirror and TV monitor and saw the coast was clear behind me. Quickly, lest two
distant vehicles catch up with us too soon, I turned my indicators on, crossed the oncoming lane, and bounced the motorhome onto the desert clearing,
with Sheila in the Saturn close behind.
As I did so, I heard a loud crash behind me, and when the motorhome came to a stop I saw in its rearview mirror a white Dodge van bounce to a stop in
a spray of sand near the motorhome?s rear right bumper. As I stepped down from the drivers seat, a blue Ford truck whomped to a stop near the van. I
rounded the rear corner of the motorhome and saw Sheila stopped in the Saturn behind the white van.
Sheila had seen it all. There was no damage to the Saturn, but the left front of the Dodge van was smashed in, rendering it undriveable, and the blue
truck?s right rear bumper and tail-light were damaged. It seemed that as I was beginning to move the motorhome across the oncoming southbound lane,
the blue truck had already begun moving into that lane to pass Sheila despite my turn signal (which, we later learned, in Mexico means ?please
pass?!). Simultaneously, the white van began to pass the blue truck, which braked suddenly to avoid a collision with the motorhome. That caused the
white van to crash into the blue truck as it also tried to avoid colliding with the motorhome.
So there we were: two damaged Mexican vehicles and an unscathed gringo Saturn and motorhome emblazoned on its rear with a huge stylized U.S. flag (it
came from the factory that way). There were seven angry Mexicans, all in their late 20s or early 30s ? a man and a woman from the truck and three men
and two women from the van. Only one of the Mexicans could speak English, and he was the blue truck?s driver. He told me that the van driver had told
him that he did not see the motorhome turning because he had his head turned around while talking to a rear passenger. Both drivers denied they had
been trying to pass. Naturally, they wanted to blame us.
Sheila?s view was that both of them had been traveling too fast and too close to each other, and did not anticipate that the big motorhome would be
doing a left turn as they tried to pass it (since I was unconsciously signaling ?please pass?).
Other motorists stopped to see if they could help, and several agreed to call the Federales (highway patrol), since our location was out of cell phone
service range. So we all sat and waited. And waited. And waited. I took both dogs out into the desert one at a time to urinate. And then we waited
some more. And then more.
Then a late-model white Chevy Blazer drove in, parking so that it blocked the Saturn from driving out. Its driver, a thickset, grouchy Mexican in his
early forties spoke in Spanish to the occupants of the damaged vehicles. I tried to engage him in English, but he was unfriendly. He had a cell phone,
on which he seem to be getting out. So we resumed waiting. I decided to take some pictures of the damage, and the relative positions of the vehicles,
and skidmarks on the asphalt where the Mexicans had braked. The photography seemed to make all the Mexicans upset. A girl who was sitting on the
siderail of the damaged truck jumped off as I took a picture of its damaged tail-light.
I put the camera away and continued to monitor the scene from inside the motorhome. I saw the Blazer?s driver walk behind his vehicle and kick our
Saturn so violently it rocked. I pondered whether to challenge him about that, but decided not to.
After about two hours of waiting, the English-speaking driver of the blue truck came up to me and said it was clear that the Federales were not
coming, and that they were all going to leave. It was up to us whether we did the same.
We went to the rear of the motorhome to watch them all pile into the blue truck (including the driver of the damaged Dodge van!) and drive off. I
wanted to attach the Saturn to the motorhome, and gestured to the grouchy newcomer who had kicked the Saturn to move his vehicle so I could do so. He
scowled and shook his head.
I saw that I could reverse the motorhome sufficiently to get back onto the highway, and asked Sheila to see if she could drive the Saturn separately
onto the highway also and we would attach it further up the road.
As I got the motorhome back onto the road, the Blazer driver tried to block Sheila?s efforts to drive the Saturn out behind me. Fortunately, the Dodge
van was blocking him somewhat, and as he tried to prevent Sheila from leaving, his maneuvers were slow enough to enable her to swiftly turn hard right
and mount the asphalt abruptly at the only remaining opening, scraping its underside on the high edge of pavement as she did so.
Sheila later told me that as she was getting into the Saturn, the Blazer driver and a woman with him had been talking animatedly in Spanish, and she
was using the word ?perros? to him. That word means ?dogs? in Spanish, and it seemed clear that the woman was warning the man that we had dogs aboard
the motorhome. Why would he care?
We skedaddled away from there as fast as we could, and many miles further on found another broad spot where we could attach the Saturn. Just as I had
done so, and was beginning to move the combination out, the white Blazer came by, its driver slowed as if pondering whether to tackle us again.
However, he picked up speed and drove away.
Sheila and I are convinced that the Blazer driver was intending to rob the rich gringos in their motorhome, and the only thing stopping him was his
fear of our dogs. Further, his attempt to block Sheila could have been an attempt to bring further delay until some cronies could help him to rob us.
Perhaps they would bring a gun and kill the dogs. Obviously, if Sheila could not escape, I would come back and the robbery could be accomplished with
some reinforcements. Who knows who had called who among the Mexicans as this incident unfolded?
The lesson from this episode is clear, and I confess I had read it somewhere, long before we came to Baja: Do not get off the highway for any
reason unless you are in a town or other populated place. The reason? Mexico still has bandidos, and little or no law enforcement in remote
places.
Except for a $100 speeding ticket in El Rosario (for allegedly doing 60 kph in an unposted 40 kph zone) and a two-hour wait to get through U.S.
Customs in Tijuana, the rest of our holiday in paradise passed uneventfully. Are we going back again? You bet! But next time not by motorhome.
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FrankO
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Are you trying to pull my leg about those "bandidos"? You're kidding, right?
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ferdic1
Junior Nomad
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What else do Mexicans call people who try to rob other people? I'm not kidding. It was an ugly situation that to my 63-year-old eyes looked like it
could become violent. We had done nothing, other than to cause two speeders to hit each other through misinterpreting our gringo signals. The
aftermath dragged on for over two hours, with all kinds of rubberneckers coming and going until finally we were left alone on the empty roadside with
the man who had kicked our Saturn, refused to move his Blazer so we could more easily leave, and tried to block Sheila from following me out of there
in the Saturn.
By the way, one of the rubberneckers who had a cell phone determined that the Federales had no intention of coming; that's when the Blazer guy's
attitude became aggressive.
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Anonymous
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Excellent post! I enjoyed reading it. Good information and "all Baja!" Thanks for contributing..."El Mochilero"
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BeBop
Newbie
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Registered: 11-28-2003
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They are talking about dogs, you think, and from that you extrapolate robbery. By the way, a hand gun in Mexico will get you ten years in the slammer.
The murder rate in the US is nine times higher than Mexico--do you get paranoid travelling at home?
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FrankO
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I still think you're yanking our chains. If someone preventing you from leaving the scene of an accident caused by yourself until they might recieve
some compensation is robbery, well....... Anyway, buena suerte y bien viaje next time .
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ferdic1
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The guy looking for "compensation" only came along later, as an opportunist. He wasn't anywhere near the accident, and the people who were involved
had already left to get help in towing their damaged vehicles.
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Big Al
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Murder rates
BeBop your statistics are misleading. Maybe the murder rate in the US is higher than Mexico, I don't know. Nine times, I doubt it. And those that
go unreported in Mexico would skew the data.
In my neighborhood I feel safe, but in other neighborhoods not so safe. Thefts in Mexico are much higher than here in the US, like it or not. My
in-laws from Mexico cannot believe that our homes are not all behind block walls with broken glass on top and a couple of large dogs to intercept
someone who might scale the wall. They wonder how our cars are not stolen when we park them in the street in front of the house. The Mexican people
are far more paranoid of their things because if you don't, someone will help themselves to your things. This you may not want to hear, but it should
be part of your preparation when planning your trips to Mexico.
Don't get me wrong, if I didn't love Mexico I wouldn't monitor this site. It is just a fact.
[Edited on 12-17-2003 by Big Al]
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Nikon
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That last one made me remember the time a Mexican asked me how long I was staying down for; when I told him he asked "they don't rob you at home while
you're away?" That came out of his mind so naturally I knew it said a lot about how they live there. As to statistics on crime, it's difficult to
believe there's an equivalent mechanism for gathering stats as in the U.S. It's a well known fact many murders go unreported in the hinterlands, not
to mention the lynchings which are often used to punish the murderers.
[Edited on 12-17-2003 by Nikon]
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JESSE
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| Quote: | Originally posted by ferdic1
What else do Mexicans call people who try to rob other people? |
We call them asaltantes, NOT bandidos.
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Nikon
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Registered: 12-11-2003
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"True Tales from Another Mexico" by Sam Quinones will enlighten and entertain anyone with its tales of things that go on in the countryside.
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ferdic1
Junior Nomad
Posts: 26
Registered: 12-14-2003
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JESSE:
Thanks for the correction. I wonder if "Bliss and Asaltantes in Baja" would have caught the readers' attention quite as well! I sure hope I don't have
occasion again to write on this kind of an incident, but if I do I'll take the opportunity to educate just as I have been educated here.
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Anonymous
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good post
yeah, the crime rates are higher in the states...the good criminals are now in the states.
murder in mexico? stupid gringo
crime in baja? nah, that only happens to the OTHER guy
watch out, you are next!
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FrankO
Nomad
Posts: 301
Registered: 11-10-2002
Location: Ocean Beach
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You should watch out wherever you are. Self preservation is a good thing. I've had a vehicle stolen south of the border and been stabbed north of it.
So what. The "watch out, you're next" thing is a little paranoid, though.
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Bajaboy
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 4375
Registered: 10-9-2003
Location: Bahia Asuncion, BCS, Mexico
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Thanks for the great post. I feel much safer away from the towns myself. But, I wouldn't consider on the side of the road away from the towns, I
guess.
Enjoy your next trip. Zac
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Anonymous
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This man should not:
A. Own a gun.
B. Drive a RV.
C. Visit Baja again.
D. All of the above.
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Packoderm
Super Nomad
Posts: 2116
Registered: 11-7-2002
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B.
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David K
Honored Nomad
Posts: 64490
Registered: 8-30-2002
Location: San Diego County
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Mood: Have Baja Fever
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Hey, let's thank the man for taking time to write the story and then for being so generous to share it with us. I wish more of you people would share
your Baja travel stories... Also, a left turn signal is supposed to indicate you are turning left... It is only a Highway One invention to use it as a
safe to pass indicator. Perhaps that info. tidbit should be on the Internet Baja travel sites and books?
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Packoderm
Super Nomad
Posts: 2116
Registered: 11-7-2002
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DK, you?re so right; I thoroughly enjoyed reading that story. (Well, I didn't enjoy that they had trouble.)
I read about the turn signal thing in Carl Franz Peoples Guide to Mexico. He says that it could either be a turn signal or an indication that it?s ok
to pass. It?s just another one of the ambiguities that makes things interesting.
[Edited on 11/21/2003 by Packoderm]
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daveB
Nomad
Posts: 244
Registered: 11-6-2003
Location: B.C. Canada
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Mood: wondering about Nomads!
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yes, pick your signals carefully
and watch the traffic. Put yourself in the other vehicle behind you for just a second. What are they trying to do? Would getting past you would be
high on their list of immediate accomplishments to perform? Especially if you're slowing down, are long, high, and as wide as law allows? Yes, the
signal to move left is fine by the book, even in Mexico. However, this can quickly be turned into a grey area on their roads because of their
turnsignal custom. And the actual traffic situation, afterall, is where it matters. This signal "for you to pass" is done in mainland Mexico as well
because there, too, almost all the older roads are built without uphill passing lanes. Most drivers new to driving in Mexico are warned of it by
others, or read about it before they cross the border. Some pick it up as they drive. Too bad for your new Mexican aquaintances that you missed out on
this tiny tidbit. It will be a big dent in their possibly slim cashflow. They have always known there were two meanings and for a moment they had
confidence in your trustworthyness. And no, they likely wouldn't want the law involved in this accident, it might not turn out well for them. Later
they were disappointed, but held to the law; it wasn't the dogs. Just my oppinion. Nice writing Ferd- and interesting.
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