Baja by Bus

Border

Billed as one of the worlds great road journeys, the 1000 odd mile odyssey of the journey down this great peninsular (one of the worlds longest) starts, if you so choose, with the dramatic border crossing at Tijuana, where for the last few miles on American roads occasional glimpses of vast Mexican flags, flying proud in the strong sea breezes which dominate afternoons here, herald your arrival in the border zone.

The build up to this crossing, perhaps more than any other we have yet experienced, was a truly nerve wracking affair: guide books and anecdotal warnings from other campers in the US campsites led us to believe that once out of the comfort zone in America's wealthiest state, we would be running into a difficult time. A gauntlet of corrupt federales, hawkers and hustlers, would out- flank us as we negotiated the potholed and cliff hanging roads to the south of the border, whilst tequila'd truckers tried to mow us down as we rounded every bend.

Not since crossing from Spain into Morocco as nervous, hitch hiking teenagers had we anticipated the abrupt transition from first world comfort into the unknown, with quite such a mixture of feelings: excitement and dread. These great crossings from one world into another are so tangible: the physical distance so short and yet the cultural and economic transition so vast.

Yet this time we were responsible not only for ourselves but for our four young charges. Their welfare, and sense of well being, now the most important motivating factor in our lives. We were therefore, also now approaching a critical psychlogical barrier- the crossing of which could lead to, on the one hand, a treasure trove of experience from which the children could draw strength and understanding for the rest of their lives. On the other hand the possibility of disaster: disease, accident, some violent confrontation, a lifelong aversion to travelling (or worse:surfing!). Sleepless nights at home in Devon, worrying about leaving the life we led there, were replaced in the US by sleepless nights worrying about the life ahead!

In the end the greatest anxiety we have so far experienced was on the US side: trying to change dollars into Pesos; a process that for some reason seemed fraught with difficulty given that this is one of the busiest border crossings in the world. Just driving around the rather seedy commercial district on the US side, looking for a place to park, was the most alarming part of the entire process- every turn threatened to lead us into a forbidden customs zone, or down a street lined with shady looking characters leaning on vehicles laden with goods of all descriptions. Occasionally we'd come to a sign saying “last US exit, no return past this point” as though we were entering some hellish inferno, with no prospect of escape beyond those menacing gates.

The money changers themselves were not inside the smart banks we had seen elsewhere in the States, but dis-organised kiosks selling coke, crisps... and Pesos. It all seemed somehow as though we had already crossed the border.


The moment finally arrived however- we could put it off no longer. We trundled our swaying motorhome down the last few hundred yards to the border itself, laden with surfboards, bikes, camping gear, school books, tools... such food as we thought we could get away with carrying with us; and then suddenly we were through! Swept through as though on a raft on a fast flowing river, the US border guards totally un-interested in our departure and the Mexican officials distractedly flagging down a very smart car ahead of us, driven by a glamourous young woman in dark sunglasses.

Her attention was obviously more interesting than our smelly, swaying old RV with its strapped-on, dangling indicators of an intended family camping expedition. No doubt any experienced border guard would instantly recognise us as a lot of hard work for little return. (A thorough search of our teeming and packed drawers would yield much in children's “found treasures” collections, but little in terms of serious contraband).

The river of traffic flowed on, carrying us with it, and somehow we were bursting clear, down the highway that parralels the border fence, the smooth highway, no sign of the hustlers or traffic cops, no onrush of suicidal truckers, just glorious sunshine, the border fence on one side, the ugly but exciting sprawl of Tijuana on the other. A hint of shanty and then we crested a hill, rounded a corner and there it was- a collective intake of breath greeted the view as the silver blue Pacific appeared before us, stretching endlessly to the South and West, with the promise of warm water, peeling waves, fish tacos and thousands of miles of perfect beaches. In an instant the worries slipped away, the tightly controlled and boxed-in atmosphere of California was replaced by a glorious sense of freedom.

No doubt Tijuana is not, if you do stop and take it in, an area to leave ones luggage unattended. The same of course could be said of any town in any country I have ever visited or lived, not least in little England, but whatever the merits of stopping to imbibe some of its flavour, our goals lay elsewhere- and we had determined to put some distance between ourselves and the creeping development that runs down the coast in this area.

We drove south for a couple of hours, stopping to eat briefly in a small restaurant in Ensenada, before heading out to the coast down a small road which led, according to the map and Mike Parise's excellent Surfer's Guide to Baja, (Bible number one) to an area laced with surf and fishing potential. Puerto San Thomas, and it's namesake Punta was to mark our first departure from the tarmac onto one of Bajas famed “washboard roads”.

The Washboards

The first indication we had been given that such a term even existed had been back in good old Santa Cruz, in the foam mattress shop. We had parked, as in the States one is so often able to do, right outside the shop, the clumsy bulk of our Motor home blocking the entire glass frontage.

The proprietor glanced casually out of his window as he heard our enthusiastic plans for surf exploration south of the border. A knowing smile crossed the calm, tanned face, crows feet lines spreading from the corners of eyes long accustomed to scanning the horizon for that tell tale bump in the glinting surface of the ocean: a face so possesed of experienced wave hunters the world over. “Have you ever heard of washboard roads?” he drawled laconically.

It was as much a statement as a question: as much an expression of encouragement as one of warning. It was as if he had in front of him the very road itself, as if he was back there, behind the wheel, facing the long trek to the promised point, beach, reef. Knowing the hours of bone shaking trauma to come, bouyed only by the prospect of untold joy as a reward for making that trek. Knowing the risks: a washed out arroyo not yet repaired, a wind blown drift of sand, a swamp of axle sucking mud, a triple puncture-or broken suspension, even the possibility at the end of all this of a two week flat spell if none of the other risks materialised.

The washboards themselves are caused by the vehicles which use them, bumping through the dust and stones, creating little bumps along the way. Over time numerous vehicles compact these lumps,wind driven sand and dust adds to them, and water from occasional rains cements them. Drivers attempt to avoid them by driving to one side or another- creating new lumps alongside the original ones and, eventually, a series of parallel lines of lumps perpendicular to the direction of travel, traverse the entire width of the road, sometimes for miles on end.

The effect is to turn the road surface into a continuous series of small speed bumps, one after the other like a train of waves, such as might be seen on the surface of the ocean after the breeze has ended and the crests of the waves have turned into smooth swells, or of course, on an old fashioned washboard. Ranging from one to four inches in wave height, perhaps four to six inches in wavelength, the washboard surface is one that few vehicles can travel over without a severe toll being taken on the vehicle and occupants.

The washboards provide the driver with two choices: speed up and try to fly over the top from crest to crest (risking all in the face of the other hazards these roads throw up: sudden deep holes, wandering cows, large cactus in the way); or going very slowly indeed ( the only option in a large motor home).



The campsites

But the rewards push such concerns into the back of our minds as we think now of the views, from the top of a rise, of that track running off through the desert landscape to the distant ocean, of the twists and turns through the dry arroyo beds with tarantulas, lizards and scorpions scuttling for cover; vultures and frigates wheeling overhead in the clear blue sky. The endless and remarkable forest of 40ft cactus, the beautiful desolation of the place, so untamed by humans, yet the home of ancient cave dwellers for tens of thousands of years.

We think too of the ends of these roads: the last bump, the last rock, dune or corner is negotiated and there, gloriously, before us: the most perfect campsite in the world! Flat sandy clearings worked into the rocky surface of the shoreline by generations of camping surfers provide the nest sites for weary travellers. Here and there clustered around the best vantage points, a few other vehicles with tarpaulins stretched tight from their roofs, mark the territory of other pilgrims to these treasured spots. Signs of semi permenance indicate the established camps of some weeks or months duration: racks of surfboards, cables strung with drying laundry, wetsuits, fishing lines.

Driftwood and rock sculptures, the product of the waiting periods: from end of the light winds and glassy waves of the morning through to dusk, when the relentless, wave spoiling onshore breeze of the afternoon slows fitfully into the darkness of the night; and of course the occasional gaps between swells, short though they seem.

In some places, where the rocky points jut far enough into the pacific to provide some shelter as well as peeling surf, shanty constructions of driftwood and tin near the deepest water entry points place the Mexican fishing camps. Perhaps a few Pangas drawn up on the beach show the launch site. The hard working Pangueros rise like the surfers at first light, launching into the swell before heading out to the favoured fishing spot. The wetsuited surfers clustered around the take-off zone wave to their oilskin clad brothers. The waves are returned: an inextricable bond forged between lovers of this place, this moment. The rising sun, the ocean a heaving glassy calm, the seals conjuring breakfast from the kelp and reef below. Ashore, the late risers cup their hands around mugs of coffee and gaze quietly at the scene of utter peace around them.

Journey South

From Santo Thomas, via mellow, longboardable Punta Camalu we made our way to Punta San Jacinto, the right point made famous by the wrecked freighter in the lineup. On good days you can ride from the outside right around the wreck to the beach hundreds of yards down the shore! For us a mellow swell made for good learning conditions for the kids- and a chance to build up some confidence in the viability of our new found lifestyle.

The main highway, Mex 1, does not hug the Pacific, but leads a merry dance from the Pacific to the Sea of Cortez, back to the Pacific and again to the Cortez side at La Paz. In between, long stretches of immense desert plains and endless ranges of dry mountains lead the traveller inexorably on.

We diverted towards Bahia de Los Angeles on the first of these dips towards the East. (Our time there warranted a blog of it's own so link there if you are interested).

A week of such frivolity was more than enough of a diversion from the main quest however and in dragging ourselves back to the road once more, we were faced with a long stretch of Mex 1 followed by another torturous washboard and mud encrusted adventure; totally unsuitable for the vehicle in which we we were travelling. Our reward? Well, the campsite which, in Baja to date, closest fits with the travelling surfer's dream of perfection. Punta Rosarito, The legendary Wall. Long, perfect, right pointbreak, big and consistent, with occasional lefts to add variety. An inside cove with a good longboard wave, a mellow vibe ashore and in the lineup. Fish in abundance, water just beginning to lose that California current chill. Ahh, now we were beginning to get the hang of this Mexico quest.