Baja, the Enigma: Part 2

Soon we were bumping along the red dirt road through cool fog, ocean crashing on the rocks only a few feet away from our car – we were finally back at the coast. And we were, for the most part, alone. The scenery was stunning, but after a while we began to question where we were, how far this road went, if we should keep going or maybe turn back. Unfortunately, we didn’t have our camping stuff and our food supply was down to some Nutella we bought at the Wal-Mart in Rosarito, a couple bananas and the rest of a flat of Pacificos (one of Jordi’s favorite things about Mexico is they sell the beer in flats). Just when we thought we should head back towards civilization, a big pick-up truck came rolling out of a side road, coming to a dusty stop right in front of us. Out the window, a friendly booming voice asked us if we were lost. We ended up following John and Katy onward to the settlement of Punta Cabra, and up the hill to their house. Luckily we had plenty of those Pacifico's to share.

John was from Arizona and Katy was from L.A., but Punta Cabra is where they made their home, one cement room at a time. Although Americans can’t own land in Mexico, they were leasing the land for $1,000 a year. The landlord, whose bright blue house sat cheerily in the middle of the hill, essentially rents out plots of his acres for the gringos to build their dreams. In this exclusive fiefdom of Punta Cabra, you are only allowed land if the main guy likes you. If he decides he would not like you as his neighbor then... adios compadre. 

At John and Katy's house in Punta Cabra.
 Misty views and tales of Baja adventures. 

Sacher Construction representin'

But if you make the cut, then you enjoy sweeping views of the ocean, rocky cliffs down to the waves, rolling hills dotted with homemade houses, quiet trails along the water, abundant fishing, fun surf, friendly locals and a community of expats – I could see why no one would want to leave. It’s a completely different existence than the fast paced and crowded life many of us succumb to. Here, a days excitement is a trip along the dusty roads to the nearest tienda, or setting out in your boat to catch dinner for you and the neighbors, or mixing cement for whatever remodeling you have going on. John and Katy showed us their BB guns they use to shoot rabbits (apparently quite delicious), their dirt bikes and ATV’s, the beach you can see from their property where they caught more clams than they knew what to do with, the caves where the rivulet of fresh water meets the sea, which attracted goat herdsmen back in the day, likely giving Punta Cabra (Goat Point) its name.

Picnic, with a lot of coastline just to ourselves

Eventually we said au revoir to our new friends and waved out the window as we headed further north on the dirt road towards the surfing beach John told us about. We weren’t expecting anything fantastic since there was no swell, but it was fun to check it out for next time. Although there were no waves, we opened up the back of our car and had a picnic (you guessed it – nutella and cheap beer) We contemplated taking the coast road north all the way until it turned inland, eventually dumping you out at a little town called Santo Tomas. But we also wanted to get through Ensenada before dark to minimize our chances of getting lost, and the way we came had more paved roads. Thus we turned back, happily satisfied with a little does of adventure in our bones. If duty wasn’t calling, I like to think we would stay down there indefinitely. We do plan on going back some day - when we have a map, a tent, and no one expects us home….

We bumped back the way we came, found the highway and took toll roads to save time. We saw the sunset over Salsipuedes, and got on the lookout for somewhere to stay. Jordi remembered a motel on the beach at K38 (just north of Las Gaviotas), so we headed there.

After knocking at the gate, we were let in by the jovial owner and shown our simple but mostly clean room (Jordi did have to kill one of those huge nasty centipede monsters in the sink). Unfortunately, the tank was out of water until the truck came to fill it up the next day, but we managed to squeeze some drops out of the shower and then were on our way to find actual food.

Puerto Nuevo was pretty mellow for a Friday night, and everyone wanted us to buy trinkets or come to their restaurant.

“Free Tequila!”

Hmm, sketchy.

“Come try, es homemade!”

Ya, definitely not.

Puerto Nuevo...

...the only time we can afford lobster ;) 

What I did want however, were homemade tortillas and a homemade blanket. After some successful bargaining I scored a gorgeous hand woven blanket from central Mexico that smelled muskily of an old loom, not a factory. To find somewhere with legit tortillas, a nearby glass blower  pointed us in the direction of a hidden place on the water. We sat by the window and  ordered the requisite lobsters and margaritas. Since we were practically the only people in there, we were waited on hand and foot. The food was delicious and plentiful (we easily shared a meal), and everyone was incredibly friendly – I say everyone because we met everyone from the waiter who brought us waters, to the bartender who mixed our drinks, to the lobster guy who helped us chose a size, to the tortilla ladies. They wanted to know how often we visited, if we were scared of Mexico, where we came from, if we were on vacation. They were excited and honored that we could speak Spanish. We said goodbye to our waiter, Felipe, and the others, and left happy and full – or as they say more poetically in Spanish “llenos y contentos”.

We made it back to Robert’s Surf Motel and crashed on the bed. A few hours later I awoke to the Japanese banter of our neighbors on the patio outside smoking, reading travel books and chatting. It was an ungodly time of night and my first thought was they were going to the airport. But then, no one in Baja has a plane to catch….so who knows what that was about. Shortly after we were awakened again when a food-poisoned Jordi became suddenly and violently sick (thankfully we had bottled water). I eventually left our room and walked out the side gate to the quiet ocean, mossy stones and an almost full moon. The Japanese tourists, the yapping dogs, the sick husband all back at the motel, and memories of a quiet, gorgeous and unknown Baja in the moonlit black water. 

EPILOGUE:

The large Jesus statue
outside the motel

Robert's K-38 Motel

 The next morning we saw the big tank being filled with water. Jordi was feeling better, so we surfed for a bit out front, and took nice hot showers afterwards. The hotel owner made us some coffee and we lay in lounge chairs by the beach, petting their dogs and drinking their coffee. After packing up the car, we headed to the border. We got in line, bought fruit bowls with lime and chili for breakfast and waited for about two hours to cross. We forgot to ditch the eggs in our ice chest, and had to go through second inspection. But after that, we were on our way home….

Surf and coffee

A quiet morning

Good times at the border

Baja, the Enigma: Part 1

One of the many roadblocks when driving though Baja. We had to get out and stand in the hot sun while they searched our car thoroughly for drugs. All they found were Pacifico's, which were heartily approved. 

     As we pulled into the dusty gas station, a man approached us offering to pump. I shoved a $20 bill into Jordi’s hand and left him to deal with it as I made a bee line for “el baño”, the main reason we stopped in this tiny town in the first place. As I happily and lightly walked back to the car, I found Señor Gas Pumper and Husband Jordi cheerily chatting away, the attendant being very curious about us while we were trying to figure out where we were. Standing there in an unknown village in Baja with no map, no food, and a dwindling supply of cash, I realized communication sure does come in handy - I was grateful we knew Spanish...

I’ve stopped at numerous gas stations throughout various countries, and although it felt like we could be as far away as a remote gas station in Bolivia, we were in fact, only a day’s drive away from our house in San Clemente. So close, yet so far away…

Beautiful Las Gaviotas

     We started off our trip being pretty close and not too far away. Midweek we drove down and rented a house in the gated, manicured and cobblestoned development south of Rosarito called Las Gaviotas. Away from our noisy apartment, noisy lives and noisy phones. We 

One reason why Wal-Mart in
Mexico is way cooler. Lunch to-go,
 no sandwiches here....

had the private surf break out front to ourselves, watched movies, went on walks, enjoyed the stars and the quiet. But then the weekend crowd started to get thick with bachelor parties, family vacations and weekend warriors. We had to leave, but weren’t sold on the idea of going home quite yet.

     So as we exited the gates of security, we didn’t turn north towards the border, home, responsibilities, or voicemails; we booked it south. We drove in the misty morning past surf spots and restaurants still familiar, stopping once to check the small albeit relentless surf at an unprotected shallow beach break.

As the road eventually turned east, we immediately escaped the thick coastal fog, coming into the realization that it was, in fact, a gorgeous day. A few houses and fields scattered about led into a one street town. We were told an internet café could be found next to the police station, and if it wasn’t for a vertical speed bump, we would have missed seeing either.

Small town, just east of the coastal fog. 

       

    

   

 The group of men with their heads in the hood of the bright blue 80’s jeep parked out front saluted us as we approached, one following us inside to set us up with a computer. After making the necessary arrangements, we thanked everyone and got back in the car. We had asked Señor Internet where this road led, and he explained it was the curvier and slightly longer route to Ensenada, versus the straight toll road along the coast.  As we drove along the meandering lane through the low hills, I could see trails that looked fun to run on and the fog in the distance, content to sit over the coast and come no further. We passed a field with all 15 cows crowded under the shade of one tree, birds swooping and soaring in the blank blue sky and even a road runner, with the funny feathers on top of his head, skiddadling across the asphalt.

      Eventually we got closer to the fog, becoming engulfed in the grey city of Ensenada. There are no freeways, just endless stoplights as you make your way through myriad furniture shops and eateries. Each restaurant or taco cart seemed to tout their wares from all over Mexico – Pan de Jalisco, Tacos y Menudo: Estilo Michoacan, Pollo Oaxaca.

     Before we knew it, we were out of the city, heading along the highway, alone with the trucks.

The road was either empty, stretching out across plains until it disappeared into the rocky red hills, or else we were behind a truck belching diesel as we wandered from left to right, checking curves and waiting for a chance to pass.

     Years ago, Jordi had been to a spot on the beach called Cuatros Casas. It was his vague memory of a dirt road that turned off from a little village that served as our only compass. After a couple hours of stunning scenery and impressively slow trucks, we pulled into a small little town and stopped at the first corner tienda we saw. Starving, we grabbed some corn chips off the shelf while asking the lady for a bathroom and if we were anywhere near Cuatros Casas. She didn’t have a bathroom and had never heard of Cuatros Casas, but she did know there was a road to the coast a few miles back, and the gas station had a bathroom.

And that’s how we found ourselves chatting with the friendly attendant who, since we didn’t have a map, drew directions in the red dust on the car, and waved us off in the right direction.