Hello there. We're in Mexico now, and still alive by all accounts. We haven't yet needed to fend off gangsters, drug dealers or even run-of-the-mill murderers.
John and I found ourselves lodged in the crevice between the USA and Mexico that is San Diego for a week and a bit. We stayed at a pleasant hostel where we mingled well with the tattooed and pierced patrons, making some good friends. Realising we were spending quite a bit of cash we slept there without paying for a night, causing me to suffer disturbing nightmares in which I partook of the free pancake breakfast only to be confronted by an angry member of staff and kicked out. So then we slept in the car. Around the same time both our accounts were frozen due to a supposed Vegas spending spree carried out by a pickpocket. Cue much furtive leaning on payphones, repetitive feeding of obstinate quarters and navigation of offshore bank account audio mazes.
On our second to last day in San Diego we were invited by some friends to watch them go on a trapeze. Ponty took us there - he's still chugging along in the ever-increasing heat. Every few hundred miles a new noise develops. Some surf wax I left behind the back seats was melted by the magnified californian sun rays and every evening freezes hard onto the cloth shelf. The next day it melts and then freezes again ad infinitum. Needless to say it is nigh on irremovable and has probably lowered the sell-on price of the car by about $6. Add this to the damage dealt by John and a drunken irish girl dancing on the roof and we are about $20 down. The trapeze session was one in a long line of bizarre and unexpected events. We acted chauffeur for Molly and Amber, two Jamison swigging Seattleites we shared a room with, driving out to the countryside where we were told to watch out for rattlesnakes and poison oak. Here was a whole circus training ground with pieces of equipment scattered about the woods. For $10 one could be flung from a tiny platform high into the air (safety net provided) and perform a few oscillations before attempting a backflip, which we did.
Afterwards we returned to the hostel, where we had stopped paying but continued to take showers and get given beers in the evenings. There was a bonfire on the beach which was alright before it started attracting all the local drug taking/evangelical/loud beach bums and weirdos, who are fun at first but grating after a while. We made friends with a 16 year old street kid from New York called joey who wanted us to take him to Mexico with us. We sort of entertained the idea before realising it would probably be amongst the most irresponsible things we have ever done. After the fire we went to a bar where we saw Ryan, a guy we met in a surf shop, and played pool with him. At closing time he invited us to sleep on his couches. He had two big puppies, one of which was called Hulk and who I enjoyed hugging. They were brothers and very cute.
After waking up and having our pockets stuffed full with satsumas by Ryan and his girlfriend Nicole we set off for Tijuana, land of the world's biggest potholes. SRSLY, some of these potholes are nearly the width of the entire road, and as deep as the eye can see (bearing in mind one's vision is somewhat impaired by the 1mm layer of terracotta dust covering the windscreen). Instead of being stopped by the Federalis and having to give bribes to avoid a night in a dank cell before being carjacked by Guatemalan drug peddlers the only interaction we experienced with a fellow motorist was being alerted that a giant pothole had eaten one of our hubcaps. Our lasting memory of Tijuana was the smell of a large river of sewage which runs along side one of the main roads. Welcome to Mekisko!
Soon we were in Ensenada, a city one step away from the touristy trashiness of Tijuana, and on the coast. In the centre of town is the largest and highest-flying flag (mexican) I have ever clapped eyes on. We met our host family, the Salgados, with whom John had organised for us to stay using couchsurfing. Luis and Carmen and their daughter Nancy were very welcoming, giving us our own room, feeding us with burritos and offering to wash our clothes. Luis, a ringmaker, showed me his workshop and gave me a tour of his garden, telling me the names of the flowers in spanish, before showering me with gifts such as beautifully polished metallic shells and a battered book on the battle of the pacific. It was the only book in English in the house and Luis thought it only right that I should have it. As Orwell said of the spaniards in Homage to Catalonia after some young soldiers pressed all their remaining tobacco into his hands and walked away before he could respond, the generosity was wonderful but almost embarassing. Other residents of the house were Polly, an authentic Mexican chihuahua, and a small turtle who slept in a sock on the microwave.
We visited the beach, on our way Nancy pointing out a gangster, or "Cholo", which appeared to be a man with flowing curly black locks and reflective aviators riding a bmx. On the beach we experienced being referred to as Gringoes for the first time. Apparently Gringo isn't a derogatory term for white people as I previously thought. Luis explained it is a simple substitute for "American" and dates back to the Mexican-American war (those particularly interested can refer here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gringo#Mexican-American_War). Later we were shown a geyser which shot seawater far into the air and onto an excited and whooping crowd. On sunday the family went to church. John tells me that 93% of Mexicans count themselves as catholics. This probably includes scores of cholos, with their tattoos of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Nancy took us on a wine tasting tour where we bought gifts for Luis and Carmen, and at the end found a baby bird who had fallen from the nest. Nancy took him home so he could be amigos with the little turtle. Any preconception of Mexican machismo was turned on its head at the sight of Luis cradling the tiny bird and feeding it flour and water with a toothpick.
So we began our drive towards la paz, the port from which we will get the ferry to the mainland. As we went inland the temperature increased making the car pretty hot and sweaty, and increasing my grumpy levels. We passed a sign with a picture of a petrol pump and "314km" which I assumed I had misread. In any case if we turned back and filled up we would gain about 5km worth of petrol, so we continued. We were in the desert now, surrounded by strange leaning cacti, some stupendously large. As darkness came and with a quarter of a tank left we stopped in a small town with what looked like petrol pumps. Closer inspection revealed the things to be rusting and hollow with wires holding the pumps in place. That night we spent in the car ranks among my most uncomfortable nights ever. The air in the car became so hot we were dripping with sweat. I, after diligently eliminating a dozen or so flies, was reluctant to let john open the window for fear of a cloud of mosquitoes coming to devour us. Eventually we gave in, opened the windows and fell asleep. Later in the night it became very cold so we covered ourselves in towels. In the morning we asked around and managed to find an opportunistic old man who sold us 3 gallons of gas from the back of his truck at an extortionate price. Off we went into the desert.
Heading back towards the pacific coast of the peninsula we met an off road section and I foolishly raced about across the stones and bumps, cackling madly. Before we reached the playa we were waylaid by Mexican fisherman who tried to sell us some clams. One of them, Federico, seemed very drunk which was strange it being 12.30pm. He asked us for beer and I gave him a bottle of the fruity 4.5% wine we bought in bulk from the winery. John then had to politely decline a libre double fistful of dripping clams thrust through the passenger window. As we moved our car we saw that it was haemorrhaging oil from underneath, a result of my feckless rally driving. The fishermen offered to help us out and we followed them to the next small dusty town full of falling down buildings and stray dogs. We followed the truck very slowly as it meandered around the town. At one point the empty wine bottle was tossed in a high arc from the cabin which made us laugh. We stopped at a shop where I was ordered to buy oil and a 6 pack of beers for Federico and his chums. Cue more wild goose-chasing around. We eventually stopped at what transpired to be one of the fishermen's cousin's house. Thankfully the guy could dry-weld the hole in our oil tank shut. Federico and friends were fed more wine and tequila by us which I think helped in lowering the price to a modest $30.
That evening we completed our drive across Baja and stopped at Santa Rosalia, a nice town overlooking the sea of cortez. We got chatting to some gringos who turned out to be evangelical christians. After failing to convert us they gave us free ice-cream and offered to let us stay in their half-finished apartment. One of them, Diane, was very nice and runs an orphanage for kids whose parents are addicted to meth which is a problem here. They claimed all the fishermen use it - it being a stimulant which would help with their physical work -, although I found this hard to believe. In the morning we visited the orphanage and dispensed candies. They were understaffed and looking for volunteers. I would like to go back there to work after this trip. The next night we pitched our recently purchased mexican tent on the beach. Amusingly it was too small for us to lie down in so john ripped a hole in the groundsheet so our feet could poke out. A buffet for the mosquitoes.
Since then not much has happened apart from a lot of driving through desert. We are yet to be pulled over by the Federalis (police) contrary to what a lot of people said. Even the soldiers at the military checkpoints, employed to battle the drug cartels, have been polite to us.
We are in la paz now. I hope you are all well,
x
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