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.