Part II: Baja California, Mexico

I'm finally getting down to putting out my trip report for the Big 
Trip Christa and I took Jan - Mar this year in our much-loved '76 
westy.  Last week I told about the first stage of our trip, 
through the states from Vancouver, B.C. to the Mexican border 
inspection(?) station  at Tijuana, Mexico.  The story continues, 
just as we pass through the border and onto the streets of 
Tijuana.....
      Tobin

-- Jan 19, 1995 --

Okay, maybe we crossed at a bad time, but almost instantly the 
traffic went to hell.  There were no lane markings on the road, so 
the width of the traffic flow was simply a function of the width 
of the roadway, which was varying substantially on an on-going 
basis.  The route to Ensenada pulled us through city streets, 
several highway-like cloverleaf interchanges, and along a higher-
speed road that was interspersed with unsigned "topes"--axle-
breaking monster speed bumps that couldn't be negotiated faster 
than walking speed.  Christa directed me rapid-fire, like an 
auctioneer.  We'd do a high-speed merge into the right lane of a 
heavily traveled road only to have to do a left lane exit a 
hundred yards later.  Everyone was driving very aggressively, 
hammering through corners and on- and off-ramps as fast as they 
could go.  

After 5 minutes or so of this, I realized I was _really_ enjoying 
myself!  Christa was having fun, too!  I had installed convex 
mirrors on both sides of the van, and they were invaluable since 
they allowed me to cut people off with confidence.  Years of 
bicycle racing helped me work within the traffic, pushing from one 
lane to the other.  I hadn't ever cornered the bus really hard 
before, and was pleased to see it actually handled pretty well 
once I got a feel for it.  Things flew around in back for the 
first few minutes, but soon entropy had re-organized the car to 
its liking and things settled down.  

Before long, we were clear of the congestion in Tijuana and 
cruising along the highway, paralleling the beach.  Gorgeous coast 
line, and we had thousands more miles of it to come!  We exited 
the toll road as quickly as possible and settled into the slower 
pace of the free "libre" road which winds along the coast and 
through the coastal hills.  The libre road is much slower than the 
4-lane divided toll road, and has rough pavement and tight, blind 
curves, but is so much more "real" than the Mexican Interstate.  
We followed the libre road to Ensenada, passing from village to 
village, plugging up hill after hill, and often biding our time 
behind very slow trucks creeping up the steep grades.  

Coming down a steep descent at the breakneck speed of perhaps 65 
km/h the truck a few car lengths ahead of us blew a retread tire.  
I saw it starting to go, and backed off quickly.  As it let go, 
big chunks of tire flew threw the air where we had been a few 
seconds before.  Lesson: pay attention when driving in Mexico.

At Ensenada we got our tourist papers, some food, a lot of beer, 
and some really cheap Tequilla.  Beer for 25 cents a bottle, a big 
bottle of Cuervo Gold Tequilla for about $4.50.  Ok, let's go!  I 
was really tempted to buy the 5-gallon jug of the "Viva Villa!" 
Tequilla (the label had a really cool picture of a matador-type 
guy with a bottle in his hand while riding a rearing horse) for 
FIVE BUCKS, but Christa wisely pointed out that I wouldn't be much 
good for driving if I went blind from drinking the stuff.  

We continued south, and headed for some cheap camping sites near 
La Bufadora suggested in Carl Franz's RV Camping in Mexico book.  
We missed the turn-off for highway 23 in Maneadero the first time 
by, so we doubled back, found it, and headed west.  A few miles 
past Punta Banda we saw a sign "Campo #8 Camping 3 pesos."  OK!  
Down a steep dirt track and we were settled into a beautiful 
cliff-top site overlooking the Pacific and across the Bahia de 
Todos Santos to Ensenada.  We had a beautiful dinner, drank some 
beers, pulled in Radio Canada International on the short wave, and 
went to sleep to the sound of the surf washing in below us.     
  
The next morning we drove the few miles further west to see La 
Bufadora, which is supposed to be a blow hole in the shoreline 
rocks which blasts spray skyward with each wave.  We were there at 
maybe 7:00 am, and hardly anyone was around.  Unfortunately, the 
tide must have been wrong, because there was surf, but no Bufadora 
action.  Oh, well, we had the road ahead of us, so on we went.  

South of Maneadero, the road continued through a flat valley for 
awhile, with rich farmland on both sides.  We cruised along in the 
morning sunshine, happily swerving to avoid potholes, grazing 
cattle, large roadkill, farm machinery, small school children, 
other drivers swerving to avoid stuff on their side of the road, 
and drivers passing in the on-coming lane.  I was a little tense 
about this early in our Mexico travels, but after a few days it 
became normalized. 

We pulled off for breakfast under some trees after driving for an 
hour or so.  Fresh orange juice, yogurt, granola with dried 
raspberries.  Yum!  We piled back into the camper and continued 
south.  It was already warm, and would only get warmer.  It 
reached maybe 70 degrees F that day, and each day would get warmer 
as we drove for the Tropic of Cancer.  

We reached La Paz in two and a half days.  We drove pretty 
steadily, because Christa's sister was going to be staying in 
Puerto Vallarta and was arriving in just a few days.  Even though 
we drove the Baja faster than we otherwise might have, we made 
sure to stop frequently and explore the desert.  The rains in 
California had apparently given some moisture to the Baja as well, 
and the desert was lush with green, and fragrant with flowers.  

In our first full day in Mexico we didn't quite make it to 
Guerrero Negro, so with night falling and fuel running low, we 
decided to find some free camping on the beach at El Tomatal, 
about 65 km north of Guerrero Negro.  I marked the odometer at 
Rosarito, and drove the 10.4 miles indicated by the AAA map to the 
dirt road leading to the beach.  In rapidly darkening dusk, we saw 
no road at 10.4 miles.  I took a dirt track off the highway at 
closer to 11 miles.  It had recent tire tracks, so I felt ok.  The 
road quickly turned into a maze of rough tracks, forking here, 
joining there.  We headed generally west, figuring the Pacific lay 
that way, and beaches are generally found near oceans.  It 
continued to get darker, and stars were joining Venus in the sky.  
We continued west, crossing an occasional sandy stream bed, 
strandling DEEP wash outs in the road, and trying to keep momentum 
as I felt the camper sickeningly sink into sand traps.  After 
several miles and nearly half an hour of this, it was completely 
dark.  We decided to pack it in, and pulled off the "road" into 
the desert (after checking the soil for driveability!) to spend 
the night.  I turned off the motor, and we heard surf not far 
away.  It was too dark to see anything.  We went to bed.

We got up at dawn the next morning.  Ah, there's the ocean, not 
200 yards away!  So we drove down and had breakfast on the rocky 
beach.  Back to the car, we picked our way along this road-maze, 
heading generally east.  We had to hit the highway eventually, so 
we just crashed along and filled the van up with dust.  After 
about 20 minutes, I saw the highway to my left.  

"Look!" I shouted to Christa excitedly, pointing to the highway.  
"Look out!" Christa shouted at me even more excitedly, pointing in 
front of us.  I looked up and see that the road was totally washed 
out.  A vertically sided channel 2 feet deep and nearly 3 feet 
across cut straight across the road directly in front of us.  
"Sh*t!", I explained intelligently.  It was too late for me to hit 
the brakes--I'd just slide into it, and it would swallow up our 
car.  So I put the accelerator down, and kept it down.  The front 
end dropped into the channel, and dirt flew up in front of us.  We 
nearly bounced off the roof, but the seatbelts held us down.  We 
lost half our speed, but the front end plowed through.  The rear 
end dropped in, the revs pick up, then dropped, and our little bus 
struggled up the other side.  We made it across, right way up, and 
still on the road!  In disbelief, I stopped the car.

Heavy, clay-like dirt was sticking to the leading edge of the 
front bumper.  Dirt was piled up on top of the bumper.  The 
license plate was contoured to the car.  The pan under the pedals 
was pushed in, and everything under the car--torsion arms, tie 
rods, axle beam, frame members, tranny housing, driveshafts, 
everything--was plastered with dirt.  Shocks appeared to still be 
connected, our camper is sitting straight with no obvious sags, 
and the front wheels seemed more or less parallel.  Lesson: pay 
attention when driving in Mexico.  I drove carefully onto the 
highway, and tried to feel for any strange noises or handling 
problems for the next few miles.  No problems!  Good camper!

We stopped for groceries and ice in Guerrero Negro.  As we pulled 
into the lot, we saw a (72?) westy in the lot.  Of course, we 
parked next to it.  Inside the store, we played "spot the VW bus 
driver."  No contest.  We talked for a while, then finished our 
shopping.  Out in the lot, a vanagon pulled up, and the guy behind 
the wheel invited us to join him that night at Playa Santispac on 
the Bahia Concepcion, south of Mulege.  Turns out the 72 westy, 
this guy, and another bus are all travelling together.  Cool!  
These guys wanted to hang out in town for a while longer, while we 
wanted to get rolling, so we told them we'd meet up with them 
later.  

About 75 miles later, as we're cruising along (at our usual 57 
mph) crossing the desert plateau towards the Gulf of California, I 
saw a couple of westies way back in my rearview mirror.  A minute 
later, these guys were a LOT closer.  They blow by me at close to 
75 mph, honking and waving.  Whoa, too fast for us; we're in this 
for the long haul.  I let them go, and kept our speed right where 
it was, and patted our camper on the dashboard for reassurance.  

A little while later, we passed them again at a viewpoint 
overlooking the Gulf of California, just before the road drops off 
the plateau down to the Gulf.  Highway signs warned of a long 
steep descent, sharp curves, and begged drivers to conserve their 
brakes.  I'd already shifted in to third, but I decided to drop 
down to second to play it safe.  It was just as I was matching the 
revs for this shift that we passed our high-balling vanagon 
friends.  They turned from the viewpoint to see us waving, engine 
crackling as I'm backing hard on the motor.  They ran to their 
busses.

I took my time working down the hill, using the brakes only before 
particularly sharp or blind corners.  About halfway down, vanagon-
boy blows by me again on a less-sharp curve.  He kisses the 
shoulder, kicking up dust; his van yaws as he corrects the skid, 
and he continues barreling down the road disappearing from sight a 
mile of so later.  The other guy hangs back, and passes me at the 
bottom of the hill.  

We stopped at the ferry terminal in Santa Rosalia for some 
information on the La Paz - Mazatlan route, and were even hoping we 
might be able to make reservations.  When we got to the terminal we 
saw that it had closed for the day minutes before, and there was no 
one around (or they all hid when they saw us coming).  No big deal, 
we thought, and we continued south.  A couple of miles south of town, 
Christa saw a patch of beautiful wildflowers growing at the side of 
the road.  We pulled over in a cloud of dust, and Christa wandered 
through the flowers.  She said, "I wish we had a blumenvase!"  I 
pulled an empty Coke can out of the trash, cut the top off it with 
my jack knife, and duct-taped it to the dash board.  We put some 
water in it, and Christa stuck a bunch of flowers in.  Ta da!  
We had fresh flowers in our little blumenvase every day for the 
next month.  Christa was very happy, and our camper looked pretty 
happy, too.

At Playa Santispac, we pulled over and went to meet these fellows.  
Their campsite is on the beach with about a kajillion other RVs in 
a huge flat lot.  There's a booth at the entrance where a guy 
collects $10.00 a night per vehicle.  We gave him a buck, telling 
him we're just going to meet somebody.  This place looked like the 
parking lot at Camping World.  

We found vanagon-boy and his pal.  The 72 hadn't arrived yet.  We 
pulled over, and vanagon-boy offered us a beer.  He's also got a 
large box full of hard stuff, and even though he couldn't have 
arrived more than half an hour ahead of us, it's pretty clear he's 
already been into it.  We talk buses.  He'd dropped a Rabbit 
engine in his Vanagon after he'd blown the diesel engine.  

He asked about our camper, and I told him it was pretty much 
stock, and that I took care of it and never drove it hard.  When 
he learned we were headed for the mainland, he became concerned 
for us.  "Those type IV motors can't handle Mexico, you know.  
They overheat in all the heat and humidy you get on the mainland."  
Oh.  Well ours will be fine; I'll baby it along; it won't let us 
down.  "Well,"  he says, "I took buses like yours over there 4 
times and blew 4 motors!"

I thought this wasn't really surprising considering the way he 
drove his van.  When he brought out a generator to run his blender 
(and TV?  He had a TV/VCR in there!) we were sure this was not our 
scene.  We thanked him for the beer, and he wished us luck.  We 
hopped back in our camper, and drove (no faster than 57 mph) to 
Loreto for the night.

We spent a perfectly awful night at a pay RV park in Loreto.  The 
site was just a gravel lot, and the town was touristed to the max.  
A huge RV caravan had taken every possible spot, 2 deep, along the 
entire beachside road.  Even if the RV park was a block or two 
from the beach, at least it had showers, so we got clean.  As we 
settled into bed, we realized the house next door was actually a 
local dance club, so the music kept us awake--even over the sound 
of our fan, which we hooked up to AC power without paying for.  At 
two in the morning, we finally got to sleep.  At 3:20 in the 
morning, roosters all over town (and in the adjacent lots on all 
sides of us) started crowing.  In semi-sleep, I dreamt of ringing 
their necks.  All of them.  Christa dreamt of rooster stew.  By 
4:00 it was clear we weren't going to sleep, so we dressed, 
unplugged the hook up, closed the pop-top, and rolled out of town 
in the pitch dark a little after 4:00 in the morning.

We drove down the highway at about 35 mph, swerving around cattle 
and other livestock out wandering the highways, and avoiding most 
of the larger potholes.  Occaisonally a car with no lights on or a 
big express bus would pass by, but there was otherwise no traffic 
at this hour.  The highway belonged to the animals.  

Gradually the sky began to lighten, and I could pick up the speed 
a little bit.  We were back on the plateau heading west again when 
the sun came up.  By 8:00 were were in Ciudad Insurgentes, and we 
filled up with gas.  By mid-day we rolled into La Paz, over 900 
miles from the California border.  It was Sunday, and the office 
for the ferry to the mainland was closed.  In fact, most 
everything seemed to be closed.  We wandered along the beautiful 
harbour front on foot for a while, then started to head back to 
the camper.  Crossing a street, we saw a synchro westy with Oregon 
plates.  We waved, but then realized by their awkward delay in 
waving back that VW-waving isn't the same if you're not in a VW.  
Hmmm.  So we ran back to the camper, jumped in and headed out to 
the beaches north of town in hopes of finding the synchro.

We drove along the shore, passing the ferry docks at Pichilingue, 
then turned left for the beach at Playa Balandra.  There was the 
synchro!  We pulled up, and waved (again) to the owners, who were 
lounging on the beach.  We went over and talked, had a few beers, 
then Christa and I walked around the point to another beach, 
hidden from sight.  Azure water, white sand, and no one around 
except the pelicans which crashed into the water from time to 
time.  Nice spot, but no road access, even if we had a synchro.  
Oh, well.  Signs at the parking lot said no camping allowed, so we 
moved on, looking for the free beach-side camping areas described 
in Carl Franz's RV Camping book.  A few kilometres later, we 
arrived at Playa Tecolote and found a spot right on the beach.

At first we thought we'd check out the situation here, then move a 
kilometre or two down the coast to a more isolated spot.  There 
were, after all, maybe a dozen RVs of various descriptions parked 
along the beach here, and we weren't sure if we wanted to be part 
of a big free RV park.  The discovery of a make-shift restaurant 
run by Mario and his wife of thirty years, Secora, changed our 
mind.  Mario, Secora, and their children lived in an old broken-
down greyhound bus parked on the beach.  They had cooking stuff 
arranged outside, and 10 or so tables set up on the sandy beach.  
Each morning Mario would row his boat out and catch what he would 
serve for lunch and dinner.  And they really knew how to cook!  A 
huge, excellent dinner with a couple of beers for each of us would 
come to about 60 pesos (ten American dollars), including a big 
tip.  So we stayed parked close on the beach, and ate at Mario's 
place every chance we had.  The RVers staying at the beach were 
pretty cool, too.  Most of them were Canadian, and most were 
friendly, although they weren't in our faces all the time.  

Parked next to us were some Germans who had come over with their 
own vehicles.  Two of these rigs were huge Unimog type RV units, 
with self-contained washrooms, showers, loads of solar panels, and 
each one had a medium-sized motorcycle INSIDE a special 
compartment at the back.  The tires were probably 4 or 5 feet 
tall; the bumpers were over 3 feet off the ground, and they had 
almost 3 feet ground clearance before they had to even worry about 
hitting anything.  The guys spent a lot of time outside at a 
portable table with 2 laptop computers, and looking over their 
shoulders, it looked like they were running Netscape.  Could that 
be right?  There were no hookups of any kind here: no phone, no 
power, no water, nothing.  Were they running via satelite (they 
had a dish)?  Cellular phone?  I didn't ask, but I wish now I had.  
Their units were manufactured by a joint venture of MAN and... 
wait for it...  VW!  The third vehicle in their group was a high 
top monster Vanagon LT.  I'd heard these things were made, but 
never seen one.  It was about a third again the size of a North 
American vanagon, with the same proportions.  It looked really 
nice.  And Martha, David Garth and others: it had a fully enclosed 
self contained shower in the bathroom with hot and cold water!  

We had originally planned to just spend the night here and take 
the ferry the next day to Mazatlan, but the beach was so gorgeous 
that we decided Christa's sister would just have to entertain 
herself for a few days as we got our fill of this place.  We also 
spend several hours on each of the next two days (and about half a 
tank of gas) driving between the ferry office in La Paz, the ferry 
office at the docks at Pichiligue, and the customs offices in 
Pichiligue trying to get all the paperwork needed to temporarily 
import a vehicle onto the mainland, and to get a ferry ticket for 
our camper.  I won't bore you with the bureaucratic process here, 
but suffice to say there are about 10 things we needed to get; 
they had to be obtained in the correct sequence; nobody could tell 
us what all these things were, or what the required sequence was; 
and all the officials knew only about their own step in the 
process, and nothing else.  After much wrangling, frustration, and 
shuttling back and forth over the same 20km stretch of road, we 
finally had our papers, our hologram sticker of the windshield, 
and our tickets for the ferry (stamped "Confirmado").  We had a 
celebratory dinner at Mario's.

The next morning we broke camp, stored everything away carefully, 
and prepared our portable cooler with food for the 17 hour 
crossing to Mazatlan on the Mexican mainland..  We arrived at the 
ferry dock an hour early, and had the length of our camper 
measured (4.53m with the spare on the front).  By 2:00 in the 
afternoon, we were loading.  We were one of the first vehicles 
onto the car deck.  We were directed up to an inch behind the 
truck in front of us.  We had about 3 inches to the car behind us.  
We were about a foot from the side of the ship on the driver's 
side, and a big truck left us about 6 inches on the passenger 
side. We grabbed our stuff, squeezed out the driver's door, and 
climbed over bumpers working our way to the stairs up to the 
decks.  We sat in the sun on the aft decks, watching the loading 
proceed.  After about an hour, the ramp was raised, the lines cast 
free, and we slowly pulled away from the dock.  

As we rounded the point we could see the free camping beach at 
Playa Tecolote.  As the sun set, Baja California gradually 
disappeared in the distance, the stark outline of the jagged 
mountains cutting across the horizon under glowing orange and pink 
clouds.  It started to get cold, so we moved inside.  After 
several hours trying to sleep in cramped "salon" (coach) seating, 
with incredible noise from crying children, Mexican TV, drinking 
teenagers, boom-boxes, and the blaring mariachi music at the 
candy/pop shop, we decided to splurge on the extra 120 pesos ($20 
US) and get a room with a bunk.  Well worth it.  We crashed out, 
and slept soundly as the ship rolled through the swells..  

Some time in the night, we had crossed the Tropic of Cancer.  When 
we awoke in the early morning, we knew we were in the tropics.  
The air was hot, humid, and had a jungle feel to it.  We could see 
the mainland in the distance ahead of us.  After a shower (ah!) 
and breakfast, we joined everyone else on deck as we entered the 
harbour in Mazatlan.  Thick jungle covered the hillsides, and 
sweat was already beginning to dampen my shirt.  Jungle!  THIS is 
what I came for.  This was an exotic, alien land for me; I'd never 
been anywhere like this.  

We weren't in Kansas anymore.

[Next week: the Mexican mainland.]

Tobin
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tobin T. Copley                  Currently              =============  
(604) 689-2660                    Occupationally       /_| |__||__| :| putta
tobin@freenet.vancouver.bc.ca      Challenged!        O|             | putta
                                                       '-()-------()-' 
Circum-continental USA, Mexico, Canada 15,000 miles... '76 VW Camper! (Mango)