Mexico - February 2003
Baja California
While Frank Wheeler and I had planned Ethiopia for this winter, other family members were not, to say the least, enthusiastic. Even though Ethiopia has been a Christian country since the fourth century and is peaceful. The alternative was Turkey, various remote parts of Turkey, but this was also vetoed. All because of the imminence of a war with Iraq. So, we took the tame route to Baja, a first for both of us.
Still, why Baja? And why by car? After all, the “Transpeninsula Highway”, the only north-south road, stretches no less than 1057 miles! Even as the crow flies, Baja is well over 900 miles long. Add the coastline of bays, beaches and lagoons and you’ve got 1500 miles. Long and beautiful. Baja is a mountainous land, one mountainous chain the entire length, often multi-ridged. Where these mountains meet the sea both coastlines are rocky, steep-faced and majestic. It’s like taking Route 50 across Nevada and Utah, and throw in some dramatic parts of Arizona and New Mexico, and pretend all edges are hundreds of miles of pristine beaches, some just pocket beaches between promontories, others stretching more than one could bicycle in a day. Most never see this. They fly to Cabo instead.
The Transpeninsula Highway rarely touches the seaside. Leave the highway and you’re on dirt roads requiring four-wheel vehicles, about 250 miles of them, often just tire tracks. That’s how you access the isolated beaches.
Baja owes its existence to the San Andreas Fault which cuts through California to SF, in fact 25 miles north of SF, moving north at a rapid rate. It split off from Mexico just 25 million years ago, creating the Sea of Cortez, which is about the same age as the Red Sea. Both are perfect examples of tectonic interaction. Baja residents are taking the slow and rocky boat to China, or at least the Aleutians; politicians who want to split California into two states may one day get their way.
One cannot escape an enormous sense of history when descending the Peninsula. From Cortez arrival in La Paz, Junipero Serra and the missions, Spanish galleons from Manila loaded with wealth, the pearl and sugar industries …. Well, all this will crop up from time to time in the account that follows. Incidentally, where did the name “California” come from? From the diary of an aide on the early exploratory voyages of the Spanish who transposed the Latin “calida formax” (hot furnace) to Spanish as California.
A PATH LESS TRAVELED
Our trip to Baja has little resemblance to trips taken by any of our friends. As usual, we are interested in history, culture and the natural wonders of sea and land. Frank volunteered his trusty Ford Explorer, perfect for a land that requires four-wheeled vehicles. We packed it with two cases of water and an emergency can of petrol, and set off at 5:30 on February 3.
By early afternoon we drive across the border. Bewildering is the absence of a checkpoint of any kind; we breeze through at 40 miles an hour. There is no record of who leaves the USA, nor of any vehicle. Perhaps the license plates are photographed.
For the next hour we zoom at 80 on a superhighway edging the highlands over the Pacific. Gorgeous views. Then the two-lane Peninsula Highway, completed in 1973, the only paved highway on the 900-mile peninsula (with the exception of a piece coming north from Cabo St. Lucas and a portion of connecting highway running south from Mexicali (CA) along the Sea of Cortez). We continue another hundred or so miles until dusk, weaving through mountainous terrain before opening upon a hundred miles of rich farmland. San Quintin is our destination and we make it before dark. . We’ve covered almost 900 miles. Burritos, beans and beer in a local cafe -- and some domino battles to amuse the locals -- lead to early bedtime.
ROSALIA
On the road by 6, driving a quick 60 miles through pleasant mountains and valleys for breakfast at Mama Espinosa’s in Rosalia. Mama, now age 95, opened her café in 1930 when the dirt road south from Tijuana ended in Rosalia. The highway still ended there in 1973. Then the town became the headquarters for the road construction south, and ultimately for the paving of that road. Mama became famous. Her daughter, Rollie, now runs it, and she greets us warmly. The café is rustic, walls covered with memorabilia. Most diners are Mexican, though a few expats arrive, hugging Maria. They are part of the annual migration of Americans who drive south each winter and never fail to stop at Mama’s, one the highlights of their trip – and ours. (El Rosario was founded in 1774 by Dominican friars who build the first of eight missions that stretched up to what is now the international border).
We drive several hours through old mission towns, each a day’s journey apart over desolate landscape. This is the lonely trail that the Junipero Serra expedition pioneered in his historic journey from Loreto (capital of California) to San Diego in 1769. It may be paved, but it is still lonely and desolate, as is most of Baja Highway. Driving in Baja is like hiking in the Rocky Mountains compared to crossing Madison Avenue. The highway is narrow. There are no shoulders; in fact, the road drops off. Turnouts are unknown. For a 100 mile stretch only a couple cars may appear in the opposite direction. Petrol stations are rare. Everyone is speeding at 70-80. No wonder the roadsides are sprinkled with shrines, even small chapels, all with colorful plastic flowers. In the course of our trip we must have seen 1000. The custom evolved from the belief that souls wander the Latin American roads because accident victims couldn’t receive the blessings of a priest. The roadside shrine helps bring rest to those souls. Whatever, they are a constant reminder that accidents out here can have serious ramifications. And then there are banditos …..
CAVORTING WITH THE WHALES
By noon we arrive at Guerrero Negro (Black Warrior), snack at a roadside cafe and proceed 16 miles toward the ocean on a dirt trail, intersected at angles by countless other unidentified dirt trails seemingly leading nowhere – a common and exasperating feature of Baja’s “road” network. We pass large solar-evaporative salt beds producing six million tons a year, far more lucrative to the local economy than tourists. In fact, it is reputed to be the largest single salt operation in the world. Our objective: the whales of Ojo de Liebre, also called Scammons Lagoon, a nearly completely enclosed bay filled with the leviathans during the January-March calving season.
Guerrero Negro was the name of an Hawaiian whaling barque that foundered in the Bay in 1858. Too overloaded with whale oil to leave the lagoon under its own power, the barque sank while being towed out to sea. The whale-infested bay had been discovered the year before, and over the next 20 years thousands of gray whales were slaughtered. The marauders moved on to other calving areas, and the Ojo de Liebre whales made a remarkable comeback.
The small outboard motor panga with eight of us heads out into the Lagoon. Only one other boat is out there. A census that week counted 680 whales in this small bay; sometimes the count is over 1200. The next two hours were awesome: whales rolling beside us, whales visible all over the bay, whales spouting, whales plunging with tails raised. And above all, the eerie sounds. Reminded me of what the Sirens might have sounded like. Utter stillness except for a hundred whales spouting, “skip-hopping” raising their heads well out of the water, splashing; mothers training their calves, 20-40 ton monsters, just barely under water, coming right up to our panga, the size of Ahab’s, a boat that could easily be flipped skyward. The babies measure 15’, weigh 1.5 tons at birth, and consume 50 gallons of milk daily, and, not surprising, gain 60-70 pounds daily. Our guide hopes that some will come right up to us to be petted; he taps on the right of the boat to get their attention, but we were not blessed with that extra touch.
SAN IGNACIO
Back on land we head east across the Peninsula, travelling the dry, unpopulated foothills of the Vizcaino Desert, a national park. The landscape features remarkable rock formations. Entire mountains rising from the plain have crumbled into massive boulders, as if hit by a godly sledgehammer. Fields of large boulders. Soon we are in volcano country, cones and black lava. And “forests” of cactus: century, cardon, prickly pear, suaharo, barrel, galloping, organ pipe, and more. Our objective is San Ignacio, a remarkable oasis, an arroyo fed by an underground stream, a fertile palm oasis on the edge of the vast Vizcaino Desert, surrounded by towering mountain ranges. Fortunately, San Ignacio sits a mile or two off the highway, peacefully nestled under vast groves of date palms (introduced by the Jesuits) and sprinkled with bananas. It is very small: a couple of inns, a zocalo (central square), mission church, and many buildings that trace their origins to the late 18th century – and they look it. It has charm.
We find the delightful Ignacio Springs Bed & Breakfast (mail@ignaciosprings.com, 011-52-615-0333) in a date palm forest on the banks of the “river” that looks more like a lake. Four couples can be accommodated, each in a circular “yurt”, quite attractive. Dinner is about to be served outdoors by the owners, Terry and Gary Mercer, a couple from northern British Columbia who discovered their heaven here several years ago. We dine by candlelight on ample amounts of chicken and vegetables, and listen raptly to our two hosts – and to a 23-year United Airlines hostess who says “no way” for United to survive in its present form. One is tempted to stay longer: hikes, horseback rides, kayaks, sailfish, fishing.
The yurt was like sleeping outdoors: crickets, dogs, roosters. Really nice. A hearty breakfast was provided the next morning. But first, we attending 6am mass in the old mission, sparkling in golf leaf and also founded by Junipero Serra (he sure got around). With us were a handful of very reverent old gals in their black skirts and black shawls. Later I kayaked in utter peace and serenity around the “lake” with its fearless storks.
More should be said about the date palms of San Ignacio, brought by Spanish missionaries over 200 years ago. Baja has over 100,000. Dates were first cultivated in Mesopotamia about 1000 BC and were brought to Spain during the Muslim conquest. Today, believe it or not, the USA is said to be the second largest date producer after the Middle East, with Mexico third. It takes 12 years for a date palm to mature, but then they have another 85 years of productivity. In San Ignacio the annual date harvest is celebrated on the feast day of the local patron saint. The Date Queen is crowned, and music, dancing and all kind of revelry continue late into the night.
I am beginning to feel very out of touch; nowhere in the world have I been without the BBC and VOA on short wave. Not available in Baja. No English language radio, TV or newspapers – in fact no hard news in the Spanish ones. And no phones. No phones in the rooms, no phones in the inns, and if one chances on a public phone service on the zocalo, the lines are long to make a call, and, anyway, international calls are difficult. The only calls I made on this trip came from spotting a guy who had a satellite phone.
By mid-morning we push on to the Sea of Cortez, driving on the rim of a mini Grand Canyon with marvelous geological formations, and views out to sea as we descend. The coastline has frequent unattractive features: fields of junk cars litter Baja, everywhere. But these sights are soon dispelled by the beauty of the offshore islands and bays and turquoise waters as we moved down past Santa Rosalia, built by the French as a mining center.
Then comes Mulege, an attractive old town of 3000, nestled in a verdant river valley and festooned with bougainvillea, It is a popular taking off point for fishing, scuba and just plain enjoy the beauty of the bays and islands off the coast, It also has the best of Baja’s ancient cave paintings. For the expats, a date palm grove is being adapted for appealing cottages offered for $57,000 with financing available. We have a late breakfast at the historic Hotel Hacienda on the zocalo, and savor the scene.
LORETO
We arrive in Loreto, California’s first capital before the Spanish moved it to Monterey. A delightful town with obviously an active and concerned citizenry well organized to preserve history, to beautify the central area and the waterfront. After a refreshing lunch in open air by the sea, we hire Jose and his boat and putt-putt a half-hour out to Isla Coronado for snorkeling with the sea lions. The fish were a disappointment, and the sea lions were not as numerous as in the Galapagos last year (nor was it the season for pups as it was this same month in the Galapagos). Still, bulls and females would dive off the rocks right beside us in the water; we could view them plunging down about 30 feet and then come right up under us to get a good look. Frank says a bull was about to attack me; unfortunately I didn’t see that part of the show. Jose himself was part of the show: handsome, moustached, constantly voicing his fantasies of women.
We settle into the Hotel Plaza Loreto which backs directly on the historic Mision Nuestra Senora de Loreto (where we paid our religious respects) and the open Plaza. The main drag left and right is sealed off from traffic. Not only is it an idyllic pedestrian walk of ancient cobblestones; trees have been trained to form a dense leafy archway for six blocks. The sonorous bells of the Mission create the proper atmosphere for this historic city. And on the plaza in front of the adjacent Town Hall outdoor dancing lessons for kids provided a great pre-dinner show. Frank’s daughter, Cindy, would have loved it – and probably would have joined in, enticed by the wild, mod Mexican rhythms.
On the corner is the Hotel Posada de las Flores, a restored brick building, cavernous entryway and lounge, large antique sofas and chairs and old Mexican chests and table and objets. The usual swords and guns included, of course. It oozes charm and comfort. Candlelight and coral colors. A rooftop swimming pool has been added. Two visits on two days and we didn’t see a single resident. Too bad; it looked outstanding. The prices are outrageous: $200 a night, compared to the high end in most of our towns of around $40 ($20 each). Meals in Baja range from $1 to $6, and sometimes we splurge for fresh fish and three courses, much more than one can eat, and it comes to about $12.
Nearby are the usual: a “Café Telephone” (where one might make a call), three pharmacias, a “Copias”, a “Supermercado” and the “Vaccinature de piliomeilicitas,” and schools. Many roofs in the commercial area were still thatched, and the stores were interspersed with traditional homes, some of which were elegantly thatched. All this is just off the malecon, the waterfront promenade.
Dinner was predictable. Find a cozy Mexican restaurant, scatter the dominos on the table -- and eat moderately. Tonight and several times subsequently, this consisted of the chips and salsa that start every Mexican lunch and dinner in every restaurant, followed by tortilla soup, actually a broth with tortilla, cheese and tomatoes. Delicious, and less fattening. Strolling home past an ice cream bar proved irresistible; the ice cream (Thrifty) is actually made in the States and shipped down.
Loreto deserves more attention. This sleepy seaside town of 10,000 was the first European settlement in the Californias more than 300 years ago and served as both the secular and religious capital for 132 years. Superceded as a port by La Paz, it almost vanished for a century until Mexican fisherman again began frequenting the area. Then came the American anglers, flying to fish camps in private planes. When the Transpeninsular Highway was finally completed in 1973, Loreto came within reach of the average tourist, and now the government targets it for development as a major tourist resort.
LA PAZ AND CABO PULMO
On the road by 6:30 with a bundle of oranges, heading for La Paz and onward.
Ten miles south we tour a new expat community of Nopolo, under construction, with plenty of plots to chose from. The golf course has been built, also swimming pools, but the underdeveloped land is scrub desert with a few roads encroaching on the desolation. Still, a nice three-room home with access to all sports facilities is available for $100,000. This was true all over Baja; winter homes available at price a majority of Americans could afford.
Offshore is the Isla Carmen, which, like most of these offshore islands, is mountainous and beautiful, and 20-30 miles long. Looking inland one sees towering mountain ranges, and straight ahead looking south are range after range of jagged mountains in various shades of misty gray and green. Not at all the barren brown that we expected. Impressive.
Long drive today to La Paz and beyond to reach Cabo Pulmo where the southern bulge encompasses Cabo San Lucas, Cabo San Jose and Cabo Pulmo. The reason one doesn’t hear much about Pulmo is that it is accessible by dirt road only, has only three places to stay, two of which have 3-4 quite miserable rooms, the third is delightful. First, let mention La Paz.
La Paz is no longer a picturesque town. It is a city of 300,000 and sprawling. Yet it does have gorgeous beaches, like most Baja coastal towns, and the celebrated Isla Espiritu which just this year has been saved from development by owner’s agreement to perpetuate it as a national park. Cortez named it the Bay of Peace back in 1535, but the region fell back into the control of the “Amerindians” (a far better term than “Native Americans”) and was free of the Spanish for over a century.
A SEA OF PEARLS
Meanwhile, English and Dutch pirates plundered the New Spain’s Manila galleons as they returned from the Orient weighted down with gold, silks and spices. And La Paz was a prime staging area, with its coves and inlets ideal for hiding their swift corsairs. And then there were the pearls. Cortez himself found the Amerindians dripping in pearls and recognized the potential. Harvesting was intense until the Jesuits in about 1700 put a stop to the exploitation of the natives. Nevertheless, it is curious that many pearls found their way to Europe where they encrusted the robes of bishops and Spanish royalty.
Then, about 1850, the pearl industry was revived by Yankee entrepreneurs following the secularization of the missions. By 1890 the world’s pearling industry was dominated by one large company operating out of La Paz, scouring the shallow bays and coves from La Paz up to Mulege. The pearl industry was wiped out by disease in the 1930s; many believe the Japanese introduced the disease to eliminate Mexican competition.
BAJA, USA – WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
Mexico won its independence from Spain in 1810. During the Mexican-American war of 1846-48 U.S. troops occupied La Paz. It’s interesting to speculate if the terms of the 1848 Treaty of Hidalgo had been different. California-Nevada-New Mexico and some of Texas were ceded to the USA. Mexico held out for Baja, despite Washington’s intention to hold on to it. But at the last moment, Washington said: OK, what the hell, let ‘em have it.
An American General William Walker was incensed, formed his own army of “New York Volunteers” and re-took La Paz. Support from Washington was not forthcoming, so six months later he fled when he heard the Mexican Army was grouping on the Mainland. Two years later he was executed in Nicaragua for trying to stage a similar takeover of that country. My, we have so much interesting history – and so many characters.
La Paz reverted to being a source of pearls and not much else – until the 1950s when a succession of American literati and Hollywood celebrities made it an international vacation spot. Bing Crosby was among this group. But until the Peninsular Highway was finished in 1973 not many intrepid souls made the journey – or could afford to.
CABO PULMO
An hour out of La Paz we turn east off the Peninsular Highway and head to the coast at Ribera, another gorgeous cove with plenty of beaches where anyone can camp or drive up in their mobile homes. In fact, hundreds of miles up and down east and west coasts anyone can drive up in a car or mobile home and live free. Stunning settings, peaceful. Often the beach is yours to enjoy alone. King of your own paradise, at least for a vacation.
From Ribera we head south along the coast on a dirt road, often washboard but not enough to rattle the nuts from the bolts of Frank’s Explorer. We pull into Pulmo. Not much there. Some rotting wrecks on the side of the dirt road. Signs for Pepe’s Dive Center headquartered in a small, rusting mobile home, and signs for “Nancy’s”. We check out Nancy’s: two small shacks with two beds each, and an outdoor john and water for $20 a night each. Fifty yards onward was the Cabo Beach Resort – delightful. Spacious private cabins, well-appointed, with full kitchen and patio, all within a three-minute walk to the beach where a casual outdoor restaurant tended all needs from noon to midnight. Here we splurged: the room was $80.
Cabo Pulmo features fishing, onshore and offshore, and diving – and, for us, snorkeling. Curved sandy beaches with rocky points, and the only coral reefs in North America. Within minutes of arrival we don our fins and swim to the nearest reef, viewing creatures not seen anywhere else in the world. Dominos and dinner at the beach café, delicious fresh fish off the beach with about six fresh vegetables – truly a special dinner. Frank is the expert of beers and focuses on two choices for the remainder of the trip. More a wino than beer connoisseur, I sip more of the former, though occasionally I cannot resist the marvelous tequila and margaritas. As for dominos, my early 2-0 lead has evaporated and Frank is ahead 3-2 going into our second day in Pulmo.
For breakfast we stroll over to “Nancy’s.” The day before Nancy herself showed off her two little shacks. She is skin-and-bones with a stringy ponytail, leathery hide and about 60. For years a marketing manager for Abbott Labs in Chicago, and a theatre producer in Illinois, she suddenly threw it all aside for a life in Cabo Pulmo about 20 years ago. There was nothing here, and I mean nothing. She provided meals for the hardy who made the trip into the wilderness, and now has a gourmet chef from the States who turns out delicacies that run up a dinner bill of $50 plus wine. Nancy’s daughter married Pepe who runs the dive shop, and she shuttles her grandchildren to school on a 30-mile dirt road roundtrip twice daily. And she is a character.
“NANCY’S”
Entering “Nancy’s” you pass through a cavernous common room with fireplace, gaming tables and stacks of abandoned paperbacks. The kitchen is there also, and the chef is in action. Tables, perhaps a dozen, are around the corner, and off to the side is her Nancy’s disheveled bed, with piles of books on tables left and right. Everything is a mess. When the last evening diners depart, she goes to bed, and she is gone before we arrive for breakfast. A casual life, but good business. No need to maintain separate housing and plumbing and utilities and all those expensive tastes!
With a bit of luck we take the right dirt roads to a delectable beach at the base of the point where we will snorkel and entire morning. A travel writer had said that “you have to brush away the fish to see the reef.” True. Maybe only anchovies, but to be entirely encircled as far as the eye can see by millions of fish, crowding in on you a foot away, is enthralling.
As with virtually all of Baja, the seaside is framed by mountain ranges, green and gray with scrub growth. The point looked like Maine with smooth boulders and larger rock formations. The fish were colorful and abundant. Also a variety of octopus. We’d snorkel for an hour and glide ashore to a pocket beach. Especially effective is the new mask/snorkel I lucked upon for last year’s Galapogos trip: a snorkel that stops any water from entering, making it far easier and more pleasant to dive.
A casual tortilla soup and salsa-chips lunch in the sun at the beach restaurant. Sports fishermen are returning on boats that are pulled from the sea by jeeps, and 3-4-foot mahi mahi (of the dolphin family) are unloaded. They slaughter the fish on tables right on the beach. The sports fishermen are delighted: they hooked about a dozen big fighters per boat for a morning’s outing.
Time for soaking up the sun – and late afternoon reading. Unusual reading. The Bible, Old and New Testaments. Our entire congregation is reading the entire Bible in calendar year 2003, and I used Mexico to catch up on my assignments. Pieces of fish were left on the beach. About 20 redheaded vultures, and a dozen pelicans and 30 seagulls all congregate around the feast, politely taking turns. No squabbling. Remarkable. With Mexican music and Mexican fare and Mexican beer we have another lengthy domino game. For the fourth game in a row the verdict came down to the last hand. We are now 3-3 as we head toward Todos Santos.
TODOS SANTOS
We researched whether to continue on the dirt road along the sea to Cabo San Jose.. The verdict was absolutely no. Creeping deterioration, aggravating washboard – well, we headed back to Ribera and over to the Peninsula Highway that broadened to four lanes as we passed the airport. Then, for the next 30 minutes, we were in the 21st century: giant hotels, condos, resort complexes or timeshares. We circle north looking over to Cabo San Lucas, an impressive geological site, but vastly overbuilt.
Some Americans bought land and built homes in Cabo many years ago. Mexican law required that you couldn’t do this unless you have a Mexican as 20% partner. Some years later he received notice that the Mexican government had taken over the house for non-payment of taxes. Of course the partner was supposed to pay the taxes; instead, he probably got the entire house after a few payments here and there.
An hour later we pull into Todos Santos on the southwest coast. Sometimes called the “next Santa Fe” or “Carmel” because of its emphasis on art and culture and the presence of an expat colony, Todos Santos is a world apart from Cabo. No hotels, timeshares, golf courses, dive shops, sports fishing. Rather, it is an old traditional Mexican town that happens to be situated in the middle of a 100-mile stretch of gorgeous beach – beaches with enough rocky points to create the best surfing in Baja.
About 400 expats live here, most making their living here as artists, innkeepers, surfers, farmers – or retirees – and letting TS change them instead of trying to change it. It is a cultured place to soak up small town ambience. TS is blessed with water from the underground stream that descends from the sierra, irrigating orchards with mangoes, avacados, guavas, papayas, oranges, coconuts, dates and all manner of fruits. Most are cultivated in vast La Huerta (“The Orchard”) just north of town. TS also has several freshwater lagoons favored by the expats -- and migrating waterfowl.
TS was founded in 1724, and the native population was wiped out by smallpox in 20 years. However, the mission had been built, and sugar cane became Baja’s major industry for over 300 years. In fact, TS was the “capital” of the sugar industry. After WWII the world’s sugar prices simply made the Mexican sugar industry uneconomic. TS faded into near obscurity. Then, in the early 1980s, the road to Cabo San Lucas was completed and tourists started to come. And especially surfers, including Frank’s son who once or twice a year joins his California friends and drives all the way down here to surf the great swells.
The annual weeklong Festival Del Arte is winding down with a final evening set of performances on the central square. We are there, after the afternoon seeking to see the fishing boats return to the steep beach at Punta Lobos, where the sea lion colony snubbed us, and dinner at Adobe, TS’s best. The evening show includes impressive group precision dancing, some of it martial, some Fred & Adele style (tails and white dresses), all 100% Mexican. Civic pride is very evident.
The Todos Santos Inn is the place to stay (todossantosinn.com 011-52-612-50040). Bostonian Robert Whiting bought a 150-year-old sugar baron’s brick-walled mansion just a block off the main square about 10 years ago, and lovingly restored it, or I should say, rebuilt it, and its gardens. It is now an historic village inn. The high archway entrance soaring beamed ceilings and 100-year-old murals lead to a cozy terrace overlooking color-rich gardens and sprinkling fountains. An art gallery nestles beside two rooms on the terrace level, while four mini-suites rim the gardens. All furniture pieces are antiques or old reproductions found in the antique markets of Guadalahara. Our room is the last suite, which means massive king-size bed, hardly acceptable for either of us. A modest bed is brought into the living room, and, it being my birthday, Frank insists I live like royalty in the canopied king.
John Stoltzfus and Craig Sinel have bought the Inn from Mr. Whiting. They are adding a few rooms and a small pool – and are garnering mucho publicity: NYTimes, Outside, Sunset, American Express …The place does have charm and style – and history. (John grew up in Greenwich, his father a D&B executive who bought Funk & Wagnalls, which had been a D&B acquisition. The father lives part time in TS. He must have worked with John Lockton when John was D&B’s president).
The next day is all beaches: Playa La Pastora, Playa Cerritos, walking miles on the hard sand, selecting smooth colorful rocks to take home, and swimming in the surf. Our kind of day. Again, one needs four-wheeled vehicles to get to most of the beaches. Dotting many beaches all over Baja are mobile homes – the great parks of Arizona empty and scatter the mobile homes all over Baja’s thousand miles of beaches.
We actually start the day exploring a few miles north or town on narrow dirt roads. It was unusual to come upon several vehicles and gringos who told us they were searching for an 82 year old woman, a favorite of the expat community in TS, who had disappeared. All suspected foul play, but they hoped that she had wandered off in a state of dementia. (Four weeks later, we spot a small item in the SF Chronicle: her body has been found near where we met the gringo search party. It was robbery that resulted in killing, and her body had been taken and dumped north of town).
SHUT UP FRANK’S SPORTS BAR
I spotted it on the outskirts of TS. “Shut Up Frank’s” – and took the appropriate photographs. Here was satellite TV and today was basketball’s All-Star Game. We sit at the bar with all the Mexicans who never intended to watch a basketball game, hardly a national sport. They hadn’t ever heard of Yao Ming or Shaq, so there was some explaining to do about how large these creatures actually were. They were uncomprehending, but rather fascinated. Then the game began. I favored the “blancos”, they favored the “rojas” – beer flowed and we all had a great time. A gringo came in about half time, fascinating guy who came down from California about 15 years ago to join a friend producing organic vegetables. Good business now. Sends them up to the LA market. And he loves the life here in TS.
COMMONDU SAN JOSE, SAN MIGUEL, AND SAN XAVIER
Let it be said at the start that this day we spend six hours on dreadful dirt and rock roads and never saw another car. I take full responsibility for this fiasco, potential disaster. The fanciest guidebook on Baja (The Magnificent Peninsula) says: “The principal reasons for traveling this loop are (1) To visit the historic and picturesque towns of San Jose de Comondu, San Miguel de Comondu, La Purisima and San Isidro, and (2) take advantage of an alternative to the Peninsular Highway …” Well, it is certainly an alternative. Also: “Baja offers several small communities that affect travelers as places that look like a Mexican town ought to look. Among the best of these are San Ignacio (yes), Mulege (yes), and Todos Santos (yes). But each of these has been modified to one degree or the other by the presence of highways and tourists. The best advice I can offer is to say “You ain’t seen nothen yet” until you visit the four towns…..” Well, he is right!!
The guidebook did have some warnings: “…is readily passable to pickups and vans but travel speed is slow due to its rough, rocky surface … route offers a scenic challenge with numerous arroyo crossings … is the steepest grade on the entire loop and can be marginal for some vehicles because of rutting and steep grade … can be badly damaged after heavy rains…” Because of this we conducted research in Todos Santos. John and Craig at the Inn knew one of the top archeologists of Baja and I phoned him. “No problem … the road is fine …if you have four-wheeled… I was there just two weeks ago …” Ha, he’s mad.
Two hours north of Todos Santos, having headed straight north beyond Cuidad Insurgentes instead of branching east to Loreto, we passed Santo Domingo and soon spotted the dirt road heading on flat land toward the mountains. It was reasonable at the start; we could average perhaps 20 mph. But as we gained altitude in the hill country, it became less pleasant or, I should say, more unpleasant. However, we didn’t know the worst was to come, and so didn’t think of returning. Further, already two hours had past. Suddenly we arrive in San Miguel de Comondu, and one mile further, San Jose de Comondu, date palm oases in the middle of parched mountains. Yes, the scenery was great; it’s just that you couldn’t take your eyes off the “road”. Not to mention our concern for the Ford Explorer. Frank never intended it to be maligned in this fashion.
Well, these Comondus were set up in 1708 as missions. They are tiny; I bet the total population is 400. But picturesque. No where in Baja had we seen such flowers around the tiny homes, together with their personal vegetable plots. And these were pure Amerindians, all less then 5’. Featured is a stone chapel with stone vaulted ceiling, built in 1714, surrounded by worn cobblestones. There wasn’t much else featured. No café, no gathering place, only a half dozen people visible, and, anyway, no one would take any interest in us. The government, however, has recently provided a small clinic and a school. Our greatest concern was getting to Loreto by dark. In truth there was one vehicle in San Jose, and the driver advised us on the better route “out”. I hate to think what the other route would have been like.
“ADVENTURE TRAVEL”
We leave San Jose. No food was available in San Jose. We are starved. I do have a can of oreo cookies. And we have water. Frank now drives – the most hellish drive of his life. We climb a mountain on a single set of tire tracks on nothing but large rocks, no dirt. Of course we don’t say anything to each other, but each is thinking two things: flat tire, and banditos. Soon (one hour) we are on a desert plateau with mountains in the distance all around. The worst is behind us. At least the passenger can actually look at some spectacular scenery. We can picture those Spanish missionaries walking this trail, or straddling a donkey, all the way from San Javier, our next destination.
It is dusk when we arrive in historic Javier. Founded by the Jesuits in 1699, only two years after their landing at Loreto. In 1744 they began construction of a famous church which now dominates this small village of some 300 people. Yes, the stone masonry and lava rock ornamentation are truly remarkable considering its location in what was one of the world’s most remote and primitive paces. It is the finest and best preserved of all the Jesuit missions in Baja. Behind the church are gnarled old olive trees believed to have been panted by the missionaries 300 years ago.
We have to absorb all this fleetingly. We must be off. Only 20 miles to Loreto. We are told it can be done in 90 minutes. It will be dark, and there will be many dirt roads left and right, and never a road marker. But we have to gamble. My turn at the wheel. At least conditions are slightly improved, but 15 mph average is our best hope. Before darkness descends fully, we see the Sea of Cortez from our heights in the mountains, crossing, believe it or not, the “Sierra Giganta." After various guesses on which dirt road to take (I always pointed straight to the Sea), we saw headlight on the Peninsula Highway and knew we were safe. Whew!
We return to the hotel we liked beside the Mission in Loreto, and return to the restaurant where we liked the tortilla soup and the salsa and chips (and a margarita!), and return to the Thrifty ice cream shop. However, by this time Frank has gone ahead 6-4 in dominos.
Tuesday we drive across the Vizcaino national park desert from east coast to west. In the wilderness 50 miles from anywhere was a new café, the Loncheria at Km 190 near San Ignacito. We stop -- and what a joy. Della Monreal welcomes us. She went to college briefly in Riverside at age 17. Twenty years later, when visiting family, she sees the roadside monument commemorating the linking of the north-south highway 1973. Good spot for a café, she thought. Della is sparkling, witty, and just a wonderful person. She and husband Luis are proud of their café and Della is a promoter. Prices are geared to the Mexican market. Top price for a full meal is $2, including steak, frijoles, rice and salad. They have carved a home out of the desert where long distance travelers may stop for a good meal at an historic spot on the highway. – and enjoy Della’s company.
Back on our favorite (and only) highway, we think about joining the whales again outside Guererro Negro, but decide to press on to San Quintin and the Old Mill Inn and Restaurant on the Bay. Famous. (Nancy, oldmillbaja.com, fax 52-616-53376). The first great sports fishing port just three hours south of San Diego, established and run by Nancy Harer, another of those expat characters. The guys and gals here have been coming to the Old Mill for years. The sports fishing culture. We treat ourselves to a fine lobster dinner, grabbed about 10 minutes of CNN, our first glimpse of news on the entire trip, soaked up some Mexican music and some fishing culture. Oh, yes, the dominos. Frank has gone ahead 6-4, and there is only time for one game. The final score for the Baja trip: 6-5.
The next morning we drive all the way to SF. Four hours to the border, and seven to SF. Correction: it would have been seven but for a deluge in LA which flooded an underpass and held us up for two hours, causing a late but predictable lunch at Taco Bell (“original” only). All the way home from San Diego we savor an unforgettable sight as we cross from Mexico into the USA. …..
HERO OF THE TRIP
The line at Immigration and Customs is only five minutes long. But our timing is perfect for another reason. The drug-sniffing dog on a leash isolates a car and finds the drugs. Two Mexicans are handcuffed. The loot is put in the dogs mouth, a very large sock which he holds with his head high, and his tail wagging, as he leads the procession of plaincothesmen and hand-cuffed smugglers to the border police station, We are fascinated – and thrilled -- with this proud animal.
MILEAGE
Frank’s Explorer is the real hero of this trip. The speedometer registers a gain of 3400 miles. That’s more than crossing the USA!
Still, why Baja? And why by car? After all, the “Transpeninsula Highway”, the only north-south road, stretches no less than 1057 miles! Even as the crow flies, Baja is well over 900 miles long. Add the coastline of bays, beaches and lagoons and you’ve got 1500 miles. Long and beautiful. Baja is a mountainous land, one mountainous chain the entire length, often multi-ridged. Where these mountains meet the sea both coastlines are rocky, steep-faced and majestic. It’s like taking Route 50 across Nevada and Utah, and throw in some dramatic parts of Arizona and New Mexico, and pretend all edges are hundreds of miles of pristine beaches, some just pocket beaches between promontories, others stretching more than one could bicycle in a day. Most never see this. They fly to Cabo instead.
The Transpeninsula Highway rarely touches the seaside. Leave the highway and you’re on dirt roads requiring four-wheel vehicles, about 250 miles of them, often just tire tracks. That’s how you access the isolated beaches.
Baja owes its existence to the San Andreas Fault which cuts through California to SF, in fact 25 miles north of SF, moving north at a rapid rate. It split off from Mexico just 25 million years ago, creating the Sea of Cortez, which is about the same age as the Red Sea. Both are perfect examples of tectonic interaction. Baja residents are taking the slow and rocky boat to China, or at least the Aleutians; politicians who want to split California into two states may one day get their way.
One cannot escape an enormous sense of history when descending the Peninsula. From Cortez arrival in La Paz, Junipero Serra and the missions, Spanish galleons from Manila loaded with wealth, the pearl and sugar industries …. Well, all this will crop up from time to time in the account that follows. Incidentally, where did the name “California” come from? From the diary of an aide on the early exploratory voyages of the Spanish who transposed the Latin “calida formax” (hot furnace) to Spanish as California.
A PATH LESS TRAVELED
Our trip to Baja has little resemblance to trips taken by any of our friends. As usual, we are interested in history, culture and the natural wonders of sea and land. Frank volunteered his trusty Ford Explorer, perfect for a land that requires four-wheeled vehicles. We packed it with two cases of water and an emergency can of petrol, and set off at 5:30 on February 3.
By early afternoon we drive across the border. Bewildering is the absence of a checkpoint of any kind; we breeze through at 40 miles an hour. There is no record of who leaves the USA, nor of any vehicle. Perhaps the license plates are photographed.
For the next hour we zoom at 80 on a superhighway edging the highlands over the Pacific. Gorgeous views. Then the two-lane Peninsula Highway, completed in 1973, the only paved highway on the 900-mile peninsula (with the exception of a piece coming north from Cabo St. Lucas and a portion of connecting highway running south from Mexicali (CA) along the Sea of Cortez). We continue another hundred or so miles until dusk, weaving through mountainous terrain before opening upon a hundred miles of rich farmland. San Quintin is our destination and we make it before dark. . We’ve covered almost 900 miles. Burritos, beans and beer in a local cafe -- and some domino battles to amuse the locals -- lead to early bedtime.
ROSALIA
On the road by 6, driving a quick 60 miles through pleasant mountains and valleys for breakfast at Mama Espinosa’s in Rosalia. Mama, now age 95, opened her café in 1930 when the dirt road south from Tijuana ended in Rosalia. The highway still ended there in 1973. Then the town became the headquarters for the road construction south, and ultimately for the paving of that road. Mama became famous. Her daughter, Rollie, now runs it, and she greets us warmly. The café is rustic, walls covered with memorabilia. Most diners are Mexican, though a few expats arrive, hugging Maria. They are part of the annual migration of Americans who drive south each winter and never fail to stop at Mama’s, one the highlights of their trip – and ours. (El Rosario was founded in 1774 by Dominican friars who build the first of eight missions that stretched up to what is now the international border).
We drive several hours through old mission towns, each a day’s journey apart over desolate landscape. This is the lonely trail that the Junipero Serra expedition pioneered in his historic journey from Loreto (capital of California) to San Diego in 1769. It may be paved, but it is still lonely and desolate, as is most of Baja Highway. Driving in Baja is like hiking in the Rocky Mountains compared to crossing Madison Avenue. The highway is narrow. There are no shoulders; in fact, the road drops off. Turnouts are unknown. For a 100 mile stretch only a couple cars may appear in the opposite direction. Petrol stations are rare. Everyone is speeding at 70-80. No wonder the roadsides are sprinkled with shrines, even small chapels, all with colorful plastic flowers. In the course of our trip we must have seen 1000. The custom evolved from the belief that souls wander the Latin American roads because accident victims couldn’t receive the blessings of a priest. The roadside shrine helps bring rest to those souls. Whatever, they are a constant reminder that accidents out here can have serious ramifications. And then there are banditos …..
CAVORTING WITH THE WHALES
By noon we arrive at Guerrero Negro (Black Warrior), snack at a roadside cafe and proceed 16 miles toward the ocean on a dirt trail, intersected at angles by countless other unidentified dirt trails seemingly leading nowhere – a common and exasperating feature of Baja’s “road” network. We pass large solar-evaporative salt beds producing six million tons a year, far more lucrative to the local economy than tourists. In fact, it is reputed to be the largest single salt operation in the world. Our objective: the whales of Ojo de Liebre, also called Scammons Lagoon, a nearly completely enclosed bay filled with the leviathans during the January-March calving season.
Guerrero Negro was the name of an Hawaiian whaling barque that foundered in the Bay in 1858. Too overloaded with whale oil to leave the lagoon under its own power, the barque sank while being towed out to sea. The whale-infested bay had been discovered the year before, and over the next 20 years thousands of gray whales were slaughtered. The marauders moved on to other calving areas, and the Ojo de Liebre whales made a remarkable comeback.
The small outboard motor panga with eight of us heads out into the Lagoon. Only one other boat is out there. A census that week counted 680 whales in this small bay; sometimes the count is over 1200. The next two hours were awesome: whales rolling beside us, whales visible all over the bay, whales spouting, whales plunging with tails raised. And above all, the eerie sounds. Reminded me of what the Sirens might have sounded like. Utter stillness except for a hundred whales spouting, “skip-hopping” raising their heads well out of the water, splashing; mothers training their calves, 20-40 ton monsters, just barely under water, coming right up to our panga, the size of Ahab’s, a boat that could easily be flipped skyward. The babies measure 15’, weigh 1.5 tons at birth, and consume 50 gallons of milk daily, and, not surprising, gain 60-70 pounds daily. Our guide hopes that some will come right up to us to be petted; he taps on the right of the boat to get their attention, but we were not blessed with that extra touch.
SAN IGNACIO
Back on land we head east across the Peninsula, travelling the dry, unpopulated foothills of the Vizcaino Desert, a national park. The landscape features remarkable rock formations. Entire mountains rising from the plain have crumbled into massive boulders, as if hit by a godly sledgehammer. Fields of large boulders. Soon we are in volcano country, cones and black lava. And “forests” of cactus: century, cardon, prickly pear, suaharo, barrel, galloping, organ pipe, and more. Our objective is San Ignacio, a remarkable oasis, an arroyo fed by an underground stream, a fertile palm oasis on the edge of the vast Vizcaino Desert, surrounded by towering mountain ranges. Fortunately, San Ignacio sits a mile or two off the highway, peacefully nestled under vast groves of date palms (introduced by the Jesuits) and sprinkled with bananas. It is very small: a couple of inns, a zocalo (central square), mission church, and many buildings that trace their origins to the late 18th century – and they look it. It has charm.
We find the delightful Ignacio Springs Bed & Breakfast (mail@ignaciosprings.com, 011-52-615-0333) in a date palm forest on the banks of the “river” that looks more like a lake. Four couples can be accommodated, each in a circular “yurt”, quite attractive. Dinner is about to be served outdoors by the owners, Terry and Gary Mercer, a couple from northern British Columbia who discovered their heaven here several years ago. We dine by candlelight on ample amounts of chicken and vegetables, and listen raptly to our two hosts – and to a 23-year United Airlines hostess who says “no way” for United to survive in its present form. One is tempted to stay longer: hikes, horseback rides, kayaks, sailfish, fishing.
The yurt was like sleeping outdoors: crickets, dogs, roosters. Really nice. A hearty breakfast was provided the next morning. But first, we attending 6am mass in the old mission, sparkling in golf leaf and also founded by Junipero Serra (he sure got around). With us were a handful of very reverent old gals in their black skirts and black shawls. Later I kayaked in utter peace and serenity around the “lake” with its fearless storks.
More should be said about the date palms of San Ignacio, brought by Spanish missionaries over 200 years ago. Baja has over 100,000. Dates were first cultivated in Mesopotamia about 1000 BC and were brought to Spain during the Muslim conquest. Today, believe it or not, the USA is said to be the second largest date producer after the Middle East, with Mexico third. It takes 12 years for a date palm to mature, but then they have another 85 years of productivity. In San Ignacio the annual date harvest is celebrated on the feast day of the local patron saint. The Date Queen is crowned, and music, dancing and all kind of revelry continue late into the night.
I am beginning to feel very out of touch; nowhere in the world have I been without the BBC and VOA on short wave. Not available in Baja. No English language radio, TV or newspapers – in fact no hard news in the Spanish ones. And no phones. No phones in the rooms, no phones in the inns, and if one chances on a public phone service on the zocalo, the lines are long to make a call, and, anyway, international calls are difficult. The only calls I made on this trip came from spotting a guy who had a satellite phone.
By mid-morning we push on to the Sea of Cortez, driving on the rim of a mini Grand Canyon with marvelous geological formations, and views out to sea as we descend. The coastline has frequent unattractive features: fields of junk cars litter Baja, everywhere. But these sights are soon dispelled by the beauty of the offshore islands and bays and turquoise waters as we moved down past Santa Rosalia, built by the French as a mining center.
Then comes Mulege, an attractive old town of 3000, nestled in a verdant river valley and festooned with bougainvillea, It is a popular taking off point for fishing, scuba and just plain enjoy the beauty of the bays and islands off the coast, It also has the best of Baja’s ancient cave paintings. For the expats, a date palm grove is being adapted for appealing cottages offered for $57,000 with financing available. We have a late breakfast at the historic Hotel Hacienda on the zocalo, and savor the scene.
LORETO
We arrive in Loreto, California’s first capital before the Spanish moved it to Monterey. A delightful town with obviously an active and concerned citizenry well organized to preserve history, to beautify the central area and the waterfront. After a refreshing lunch in open air by the sea, we hire Jose and his boat and putt-putt a half-hour out to Isla Coronado for snorkeling with the sea lions. The fish were a disappointment, and the sea lions were not as numerous as in the Galapagos last year (nor was it the season for pups as it was this same month in the Galapagos). Still, bulls and females would dive off the rocks right beside us in the water; we could view them plunging down about 30 feet and then come right up under us to get a good look. Frank says a bull was about to attack me; unfortunately I didn’t see that part of the show. Jose himself was part of the show: handsome, moustached, constantly voicing his fantasies of women.
We settle into the Hotel Plaza Loreto which backs directly on the historic Mision Nuestra Senora de Loreto (where we paid our religious respects) and the open Plaza. The main drag left and right is sealed off from traffic. Not only is it an idyllic pedestrian walk of ancient cobblestones; trees have been trained to form a dense leafy archway for six blocks. The sonorous bells of the Mission create the proper atmosphere for this historic city. And on the plaza in front of the adjacent Town Hall outdoor dancing lessons for kids provided a great pre-dinner show. Frank’s daughter, Cindy, would have loved it – and probably would have joined in, enticed by the wild, mod Mexican rhythms.
On the corner is the Hotel Posada de las Flores, a restored brick building, cavernous entryway and lounge, large antique sofas and chairs and old Mexican chests and table and objets. The usual swords and guns included, of course. It oozes charm and comfort. Candlelight and coral colors. A rooftop swimming pool has been added. Two visits on two days and we didn’t see a single resident. Too bad; it looked outstanding. The prices are outrageous: $200 a night, compared to the high end in most of our towns of around $40 ($20 each). Meals in Baja range from $1 to $6, and sometimes we splurge for fresh fish and three courses, much more than one can eat, and it comes to about $12.
Nearby are the usual: a “Café Telephone” (where one might make a call), three pharmacias, a “Copias”, a “Supermercado” and the “Vaccinature de piliomeilicitas,” and schools. Many roofs in the commercial area were still thatched, and the stores were interspersed with traditional homes, some of which were elegantly thatched. All this is just off the malecon, the waterfront promenade.
Dinner was predictable. Find a cozy Mexican restaurant, scatter the dominos on the table -- and eat moderately. Tonight and several times subsequently, this consisted of the chips and salsa that start every Mexican lunch and dinner in every restaurant, followed by tortilla soup, actually a broth with tortilla, cheese and tomatoes. Delicious, and less fattening. Strolling home past an ice cream bar proved irresistible; the ice cream (Thrifty) is actually made in the States and shipped down.
Loreto deserves more attention. This sleepy seaside town of 10,000 was the first European settlement in the Californias more than 300 years ago and served as both the secular and religious capital for 132 years. Superceded as a port by La Paz, it almost vanished for a century until Mexican fisherman again began frequenting the area. Then came the American anglers, flying to fish camps in private planes. When the Transpeninsular Highway was finally completed in 1973, Loreto came within reach of the average tourist, and now the government targets it for development as a major tourist resort.
LA PAZ AND CABO PULMO
On the road by 6:30 with a bundle of oranges, heading for La Paz and onward.
Ten miles south we tour a new expat community of Nopolo, under construction, with plenty of plots to chose from. The golf course has been built, also swimming pools, but the underdeveloped land is scrub desert with a few roads encroaching on the desolation. Still, a nice three-room home with access to all sports facilities is available for $100,000. This was true all over Baja; winter homes available at price a majority of Americans could afford.
Offshore is the Isla Carmen, which, like most of these offshore islands, is mountainous and beautiful, and 20-30 miles long. Looking inland one sees towering mountain ranges, and straight ahead looking south are range after range of jagged mountains in various shades of misty gray and green. Not at all the barren brown that we expected. Impressive.
Long drive today to La Paz and beyond to reach Cabo Pulmo where the southern bulge encompasses Cabo San Lucas, Cabo San Jose and Cabo Pulmo. The reason one doesn’t hear much about Pulmo is that it is accessible by dirt road only, has only three places to stay, two of which have 3-4 quite miserable rooms, the third is delightful. First, let mention La Paz.
La Paz is no longer a picturesque town. It is a city of 300,000 and sprawling. Yet it does have gorgeous beaches, like most Baja coastal towns, and the celebrated Isla Espiritu which just this year has been saved from development by owner’s agreement to perpetuate it as a national park. Cortez named it the Bay of Peace back in 1535, but the region fell back into the control of the “Amerindians” (a far better term than “Native Americans”) and was free of the Spanish for over a century.
A SEA OF PEARLS
Meanwhile, English and Dutch pirates plundered the New Spain’s Manila galleons as they returned from the Orient weighted down with gold, silks and spices. And La Paz was a prime staging area, with its coves and inlets ideal for hiding their swift corsairs. And then there were the pearls. Cortez himself found the Amerindians dripping in pearls and recognized the potential. Harvesting was intense until the Jesuits in about 1700 put a stop to the exploitation of the natives. Nevertheless, it is curious that many pearls found their way to Europe where they encrusted the robes of bishops and Spanish royalty.
Then, about 1850, the pearl industry was revived by Yankee entrepreneurs following the secularization of the missions. By 1890 the world’s pearling industry was dominated by one large company operating out of La Paz, scouring the shallow bays and coves from La Paz up to Mulege. The pearl industry was wiped out by disease in the 1930s; many believe the Japanese introduced the disease to eliminate Mexican competition.
BAJA, USA – WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
Mexico won its independence from Spain in 1810. During the Mexican-American war of 1846-48 U.S. troops occupied La Paz. It’s interesting to speculate if the terms of the 1848 Treaty of Hidalgo had been different. California-Nevada-New Mexico and some of Texas were ceded to the USA. Mexico held out for Baja, despite Washington’s intention to hold on to it. But at the last moment, Washington said: OK, what the hell, let ‘em have it.
An American General William Walker was incensed, formed his own army of “New York Volunteers” and re-took La Paz. Support from Washington was not forthcoming, so six months later he fled when he heard the Mexican Army was grouping on the Mainland. Two years later he was executed in Nicaragua for trying to stage a similar takeover of that country. My, we have so much interesting history – and so many characters.
La Paz reverted to being a source of pearls and not much else – until the 1950s when a succession of American literati and Hollywood celebrities made it an international vacation spot. Bing Crosby was among this group. But until the Peninsular Highway was finished in 1973 not many intrepid souls made the journey – or could afford to.
CABO PULMO
An hour out of La Paz we turn east off the Peninsular Highway and head to the coast at Ribera, another gorgeous cove with plenty of beaches where anyone can camp or drive up in their mobile homes. In fact, hundreds of miles up and down east and west coasts anyone can drive up in a car or mobile home and live free. Stunning settings, peaceful. Often the beach is yours to enjoy alone. King of your own paradise, at least for a vacation.
From Ribera we head south along the coast on a dirt road, often washboard but not enough to rattle the nuts from the bolts of Frank’s Explorer. We pull into Pulmo. Not much there. Some rotting wrecks on the side of the dirt road. Signs for Pepe’s Dive Center headquartered in a small, rusting mobile home, and signs for “Nancy’s”. We check out Nancy’s: two small shacks with two beds each, and an outdoor john and water for $20 a night each. Fifty yards onward was the Cabo Beach Resort – delightful. Spacious private cabins, well-appointed, with full kitchen and patio, all within a three-minute walk to the beach where a casual outdoor restaurant tended all needs from noon to midnight. Here we splurged: the room was $80.
Cabo Pulmo features fishing, onshore and offshore, and diving – and, for us, snorkeling. Curved sandy beaches with rocky points, and the only coral reefs in North America. Within minutes of arrival we don our fins and swim to the nearest reef, viewing creatures not seen anywhere else in the world. Dominos and dinner at the beach café, delicious fresh fish off the beach with about six fresh vegetables – truly a special dinner. Frank is the expert of beers and focuses on two choices for the remainder of the trip. More a wino than beer connoisseur, I sip more of the former, though occasionally I cannot resist the marvelous tequila and margaritas. As for dominos, my early 2-0 lead has evaporated and Frank is ahead 3-2 going into our second day in Pulmo.
For breakfast we stroll over to “Nancy’s.” The day before Nancy herself showed off her two little shacks. She is skin-and-bones with a stringy ponytail, leathery hide and about 60. For years a marketing manager for Abbott Labs in Chicago, and a theatre producer in Illinois, she suddenly threw it all aside for a life in Cabo Pulmo about 20 years ago. There was nothing here, and I mean nothing. She provided meals for the hardy who made the trip into the wilderness, and now has a gourmet chef from the States who turns out delicacies that run up a dinner bill of $50 plus wine. Nancy’s daughter married Pepe who runs the dive shop, and she shuttles her grandchildren to school on a 30-mile dirt road roundtrip twice daily. And she is a character.
“NANCY’S”
Entering “Nancy’s” you pass through a cavernous common room with fireplace, gaming tables and stacks of abandoned paperbacks. The kitchen is there also, and the chef is in action. Tables, perhaps a dozen, are around the corner, and off to the side is her Nancy’s disheveled bed, with piles of books on tables left and right. Everything is a mess. When the last evening diners depart, she goes to bed, and she is gone before we arrive for breakfast. A casual life, but good business. No need to maintain separate housing and plumbing and utilities and all those expensive tastes!
With a bit of luck we take the right dirt roads to a delectable beach at the base of the point where we will snorkel and entire morning. A travel writer had said that “you have to brush away the fish to see the reef.” True. Maybe only anchovies, but to be entirely encircled as far as the eye can see by millions of fish, crowding in on you a foot away, is enthralling.
As with virtually all of Baja, the seaside is framed by mountain ranges, green and gray with scrub growth. The point looked like Maine with smooth boulders and larger rock formations. The fish were colorful and abundant. Also a variety of octopus. We’d snorkel for an hour and glide ashore to a pocket beach. Especially effective is the new mask/snorkel I lucked upon for last year’s Galapogos trip: a snorkel that stops any water from entering, making it far easier and more pleasant to dive.
A casual tortilla soup and salsa-chips lunch in the sun at the beach restaurant. Sports fishermen are returning on boats that are pulled from the sea by jeeps, and 3-4-foot mahi mahi (of the dolphin family) are unloaded. They slaughter the fish on tables right on the beach. The sports fishermen are delighted: they hooked about a dozen big fighters per boat for a morning’s outing.
Time for soaking up the sun – and late afternoon reading. Unusual reading. The Bible, Old and New Testaments. Our entire congregation is reading the entire Bible in calendar year 2003, and I used Mexico to catch up on my assignments. Pieces of fish were left on the beach. About 20 redheaded vultures, and a dozen pelicans and 30 seagulls all congregate around the feast, politely taking turns. No squabbling. Remarkable. With Mexican music and Mexican fare and Mexican beer we have another lengthy domino game. For the fourth game in a row the verdict came down to the last hand. We are now 3-3 as we head toward Todos Santos.
TODOS SANTOS
We researched whether to continue on the dirt road along the sea to Cabo San Jose.. The verdict was absolutely no. Creeping deterioration, aggravating washboard – well, we headed back to Ribera and over to the Peninsula Highway that broadened to four lanes as we passed the airport. Then, for the next 30 minutes, we were in the 21st century: giant hotels, condos, resort complexes or timeshares. We circle north looking over to Cabo San Lucas, an impressive geological site, but vastly overbuilt.
Some Americans bought land and built homes in Cabo many years ago. Mexican law required that you couldn’t do this unless you have a Mexican as 20% partner. Some years later he received notice that the Mexican government had taken over the house for non-payment of taxes. Of course the partner was supposed to pay the taxes; instead, he probably got the entire house after a few payments here and there.
An hour later we pull into Todos Santos on the southwest coast. Sometimes called the “next Santa Fe” or “Carmel” because of its emphasis on art and culture and the presence of an expat colony, Todos Santos is a world apart from Cabo. No hotels, timeshares, golf courses, dive shops, sports fishing. Rather, it is an old traditional Mexican town that happens to be situated in the middle of a 100-mile stretch of gorgeous beach – beaches with enough rocky points to create the best surfing in Baja.
About 400 expats live here, most making their living here as artists, innkeepers, surfers, farmers – or retirees – and letting TS change them instead of trying to change it. It is a cultured place to soak up small town ambience. TS is blessed with water from the underground stream that descends from the sierra, irrigating orchards with mangoes, avacados, guavas, papayas, oranges, coconuts, dates and all manner of fruits. Most are cultivated in vast La Huerta (“The Orchard”) just north of town. TS also has several freshwater lagoons favored by the expats -- and migrating waterfowl.
TS was founded in 1724, and the native population was wiped out by smallpox in 20 years. However, the mission had been built, and sugar cane became Baja’s major industry for over 300 years. In fact, TS was the “capital” of the sugar industry. After WWII the world’s sugar prices simply made the Mexican sugar industry uneconomic. TS faded into near obscurity. Then, in the early 1980s, the road to Cabo San Lucas was completed and tourists started to come. And especially surfers, including Frank’s son who once or twice a year joins his California friends and drives all the way down here to surf the great swells.
The annual weeklong Festival Del Arte is winding down with a final evening set of performances on the central square. We are there, after the afternoon seeking to see the fishing boats return to the steep beach at Punta Lobos, where the sea lion colony snubbed us, and dinner at Adobe, TS’s best. The evening show includes impressive group precision dancing, some of it martial, some Fred & Adele style (tails and white dresses), all 100% Mexican. Civic pride is very evident.
The Todos Santos Inn is the place to stay (todossantosinn.com 011-52-612-50040). Bostonian Robert Whiting bought a 150-year-old sugar baron’s brick-walled mansion just a block off the main square about 10 years ago, and lovingly restored it, or I should say, rebuilt it, and its gardens. It is now an historic village inn. The high archway entrance soaring beamed ceilings and 100-year-old murals lead to a cozy terrace overlooking color-rich gardens and sprinkling fountains. An art gallery nestles beside two rooms on the terrace level, while four mini-suites rim the gardens. All furniture pieces are antiques or old reproductions found in the antique markets of Guadalahara. Our room is the last suite, which means massive king-size bed, hardly acceptable for either of us. A modest bed is brought into the living room, and, it being my birthday, Frank insists I live like royalty in the canopied king.
John Stoltzfus and Craig Sinel have bought the Inn from Mr. Whiting. They are adding a few rooms and a small pool – and are garnering mucho publicity: NYTimes, Outside, Sunset, American Express …The place does have charm and style – and history. (John grew up in Greenwich, his father a D&B executive who bought Funk & Wagnalls, which had been a D&B acquisition. The father lives part time in TS. He must have worked with John Lockton when John was D&B’s president).
The next day is all beaches: Playa La Pastora, Playa Cerritos, walking miles on the hard sand, selecting smooth colorful rocks to take home, and swimming in the surf. Our kind of day. Again, one needs four-wheeled vehicles to get to most of the beaches. Dotting many beaches all over Baja are mobile homes – the great parks of Arizona empty and scatter the mobile homes all over Baja’s thousand miles of beaches.
We actually start the day exploring a few miles north or town on narrow dirt roads. It was unusual to come upon several vehicles and gringos who told us they were searching for an 82 year old woman, a favorite of the expat community in TS, who had disappeared. All suspected foul play, but they hoped that she had wandered off in a state of dementia. (Four weeks later, we spot a small item in the SF Chronicle: her body has been found near where we met the gringo search party. It was robbery that resulted in killing, and her body had been taken and dumped north of town).
SHUT UP FRANK’S SPORTS BAR
I spotted it on the outskirts of TS. “Shut Up Frank’s” – and took the appropriate photographs. Here was satellite TV and today was basketball’s All-Star Game. We sit at the bar with all the Mexicans who never intended to watch a basketball game, hardly a national sport. They hadn’t ever heard of Yao Ming or Shaq, so there was some explaining to do about how large these creatures actually were. They were uncomprehending, but rather fascinated. Then the game began. I favored the “blancos”, they favored the “rojas” – beer flowed and we all had a great time. A gringo came in about half time, fascinating guy who came down from California about 15 years ago to join a friend producing organic vegetables. Good business now. Sends them up to the LA market. And he loves the life here in TS.
COMMONDU SAN JOSE, SAN MIGUEL, AND SAN XAVIER
Let it be said at the start that this day we spend six hours on dreadful dirt and rock roads and never saw another car. I take full responsibility for this fiasco, potential disaster. The fanciest guidebook on Baja (The Magnificent Peninsula) says: “The principal reasons for traveling this loop are (1) To visit the historic and picturesque towns of San Jose de Comondu, San Miguel de Comondu, La Purisima and San Isidro, and (2) take advantage of an alternative to the Peninsular Highway …” Well, it is certainly an alternative. Also: “Baja offers several small communities that affect travelers as places that look like a Mexican town ought to look. Among the best of these are San Ignacio (yes), Mulege (yes), and Todos Santos (yes). But each of these has been modified to one degree or the other by the presence of highways and tourists. The best advice I can offer is to say “You ain’t seen nothen yet” until you visit the four towns…..” Well, he is right!!
The guidebook did have some warnings: “…is readily passable to pickups and vans but travel speed is slow due to its rough, rocky surface … route offers a scenic challenge with numerous arroyo crossings … is the steepest grade on the entire loop and can be marginal for some vehicles because of rutting and steep grade … can be badly damaged after heavy rains…” Because of this we conducted research in Todos Santos. John and Craig at the Inn knew one of the top archeologists of Baja and I phoned him. “No problem … the road is fine …if you have four-wheeled… I was there just two weeks ago …” Ha, he’s mad.
Two hours north of Todos Santos, having headed straight north beyond Cuidad Insurgentes instead of branching east to Loreto, we passed Santo Domingo and soon spotted the dirt road heading on flat land toward the mountains. It was reasonable at the start; we could average perhaps 20 mph. But as we gained altitude in the hill country, it became less pleasant or, I should say, more unpleasant. However, we didn’t know the worst was to come, and so didn’t think of returning. Further, already two hours had past. Suddenly we arrive in San Miguel de Comondu, and one mile further, San Jose de Comondu, date palm oases in the middle of parched mountains. Yes, the scenery was great; it’s just that you couldn’t take your eyes off the “road”. Not to mention our concern for the Ford Explorer. Frank never intended it to be maligned in this fashion.
Well, these Comondus were set up in 1708 as missions. They are tiny; I bet the total population is 400. But picturesque. No where in Baja had we seen such flowers around the tiny homes, together with their personal vegetable plots. And these were pure Amerindians, all less then 5’. Featured is a stone chapel with stone vaulted ceiling, built in 1714, surrounded by worn cobblestones. There wasn’t much else featured. No café, no gathering place, only a half dozen people visible, and, anyway, no one would take any interest in us. The government, however, has recently provided a small clinic and a school. Our greatest concern was getting to Loreto by dark. In truth there was one vehicle in San Jose, and the driver advised us on the better route “out”. I hate to think what the other route would have been like.
“ADVENTURE TRAVEL”
We leave San Jose. No food was available in San Jose. We are starved. I do have a can of oreo cookies. And we have water. Frank now drives – the most hellish drive of his life. We climb a mountain on a single set of tire tracks on nothing but large rocks, no dirt. Of course we don’t say anything to each other, but each is thinking two things: flat tire, and banditos. Soon (one hour) we are on a desert plateau with mountains in the distance all around. The worst is behind us. At least the passenger can actually look at some spectacular scenery. We can picture those Spanish missionaries walking this trail, or straddling a donkey, all the way from San Javier, our next destination.
It is dusk when we arrive in historic Javier. Founded by the Jesuits in 1699, only two years after their landing at Loreto. In 1744 they began construction of a famous church which now dominates this small village of some 300 people. Yes, the stone masonry and lava rock ornamentation are truly remarkable considering its location in what was one of the world’s most remote and primitive paces. It is the finest and best preserved of all the Jesuit missions in Baja. Behind the church are gnarled old olive trees believed to have been panted by the missionaries 300 years ago.
We have to absorb all this fleetingly. We must be off. Only 20 miles to Loreto. We are told it can be done in 90 minutes. It will be dark, and there will be many dirt roads left and right, and never a road marker. But we have to gamble. My turn at the wheel. At least conditions are slightly improved, but 15 mph average is our best hope. Before darkness descends fully, we see the Sea of Cortez from our heights in the mountains, crossing, believe it or not, the “Sierra Giganta." After various guesses on which dirt road to take (I always pointed straight to the Sea), we saw headlight on the Peninsula Highway and knew we were safe. Whew!
We return to the hotel we liked beside the Mission in Loreto, and return to the restaurant where we liked the tortilla soup and the salsa and chips (and a margarita!), and return to the Thrifty ice cream shop. However, by this time Frank has gone ahead 6-4 in dominos.
Tuesday we drive across the Vizcaino national park desert from east coast to west. In the wilderness 50 miles from anywhere was a new café, the Loncheria at Km 190 near San Ignacito. We stop -- and what a joy. Della Monreal welcomes us. She went to college briefly in Riverside at age 17. Twenty years later, when visiting family, she sees the roadside monument commemorating the linking of the north-south highway 1973. Good spot for a café, she thought. Della is sparkling, witty, and just a wonderful person. She and husband Luis are proud of their café and Della is a promoter. Prices are geared to the Mexican market. Top price for a full meal is $2, including steak, frijoles, rice and salad. They have carved a home out of the desert where long distance travelers may stop for a good meal at an historic spot on the highway. – and enjoy Della’s company.
Back on our favorite (and only) highway, we think about joining the whales again outside Guererro Negro, but decide to press on to San Quintin and the Old Mill Inn and Restaurant on the Bay. Famous. (Nancy, oldmillbaja.com, fax 52-616-53376). The first great sports fishing port just three hours south of San Diego, established and run by Nancy Harer, another of those expat characters. The guys and gals here have been coming to the Old Mill for years. The sports fishing culture. We treat ourselves to a fine lobster dinner, grabbed about 10 minutes of CNN, our first glimpse of news on the entire trip, soaked up some Mexican music and some fishing culture. Oh, yes, the dominos. Frank has gone ahead 6-4, and there is only time for one game. The final score for the Baja trip: 6-5.
The next morning we drive all the way to SF. Four hours to the border, and seven to SF. Correction: it would have been seven but for a deluge in LA which flooded an underpass and held us up for two hours, causing a late but predictable lunch at Taco Bell (“original” only). All the way home from San Diego we savor an unforgettable sight as we cross from Mexico into the USA. …..
HERO OF THE TRIP
The line at Immigration and Customs is only five minutes long. But our timing is perfect for another reason. The drug-sniffing dog on a leash isolates a car and finds the drugs. Two Mexicans are handcuffed. The loot is put in the dogs mouth, a very large sock which he holds with his head high, and his tail wagging, as he leads the procession of plaincothesmen and hand-cuffed smugglers to the border police station, We are fascinated – and thrilled -- with this proud animal.
MILEAGE
Frank’s Explorer is the real hero of this trip. The speedometer registers a gain of 3400 miles. That’s more than crossing the USA!
