slow bus to somewhere

2007-04-04T14:36:00.000-07:00

waaaaaahhhh

2006-06-13T08:29:00.001-07:00

Just what we need for the school run.

2006-06-13T08:29:00.000-07:00

He wasn't in.

2006-06-13T08:19:00.000-07:00

Dawn on an Appalachian lake.

2006-06-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

Cream Cheese bagels at 6500 ft. Summit lunch in the Appalachians after a long climb.

2006-06-13T08:05:00.000-07:00

Italy? France? Nope... This is America. The century of prosperity which has seen the US come to dominance in World affairs has spawned more than armies, cars and skyscrapers. Perhaps we are too cynical- maybe in a few centuries this era will be seen as one of glorious human acheivement instead of evangelism, environmental destruction and economic imperialism. Whether in the museums, great houses, cities or state parks, modern America produces wonders of human creativity on a vast scale.

2006-06-13T07:43:00.000-07:00

For Sale... Slightly used RV with large roofrack.

2006-06-13T07:37:00.000-07:00

New York from the top of the Empire State building. Birthday treat for Jemima.

2006-06-13T07:33:00.000-07:00

Cape Hatteras lighthouse. Two weeks on the outer banks waiting for swell....the surf stayed small but the fishing was fab. Gulf stream temperatures in the water- the last warm water stop. Ah well, back in the wetsuits I guess.

2006-04-29T10:38:00.000-07:00

Bush's America 1... From outside the security fence the grey monsters loom against a leaden Texas sky. To enable oil companies to keep up with the spiralling demand for fuel oil GW has recently relaxed environmental constraints. This vast project is on land which until recently was a protected state park, owned by the people of America for their use and for the conservation of their environment. It is now behind razorwire and the property of LNG inc.

2006-04-29T10:36:00.000-07:00

Bush's America 2... Stark transition from Northern Mexico into Texas. Vast areas around Houston are fenced off with razorwire, inside which the world's largest chemistry set synthesises the world's largest stash of fuel oils.

2006-04-29T10:29:00.000-07:00

Glastonbury on Sea! Semana Santa, Mexico's most celebrated national holiday. About 30 million people take to the water- estuaries, lakes, rivers, anywhere to wallow the afternoon away with a feast, plenty of beer and as big a sound system as can fit on top of everything else in the pick-up. This was Monte Pio... 10000 people, two loos and one lifeguard. Hectic stuff

2006-04-29T10:21:00.000-07:00

Strangely, this surrealist garden in Northern Mexico, now being reclaimed by the jungle, was built by an eccentric Englishman. It's a parent's nightmare with spiralling concrete stairways to nowhere, precipitous waterfalls and crumbling walkways over deep chasms. The children, inevitably were all over it!

2006-04-11T12:14:00.000-07:00

The gang is in heaven with not one but THREE bus borne families camping in the mountains of Chiapas at the same site as us!!

2006-04-11T12:03:00.000-07:00

Mega Popoyo pix on the surf report

2006-04-11T11:38:00.000-07:00

Agua Azul. Chiapas. Jemima has uploaded a few pix of the gang swimming here. We are staying at San Cristobal, in the mountains of Chiapas, from where we will have, reluctantly, to start heading home soon.

2006-04-11T11:34:00.000-07:00

Tikal, of all the Mayan sites we have visited this really was the most dramatic. Temples soaring out of the jungle, steep enough to turn the strongest of stomachs, high enough to carry you up over the canopy to the sky.

2006-04-11T11:26:00.000-07:00

For these children in Chiapas, even if a computer is a novelty, at least school is within distance and food is not scarce. They are the lucky ones- we have come across many who have had easy access to neither.

2006-04-11T11:21:00.000-07:00

San Cristobal Market, Chiapas.

2006-04-11T11:19:00.000-07:00

Sarah, in North- west Nicaragua. Educated, employed, as good a person as you could ever hope to meet, but a passport, costing several months wages, is a distant, perhaps unobtainable dream.

Privations

2006-04-11T10:59:00.000-07:00

Privations 1.

The time we have spent traveling this year has given us an insight into the world of those who spend their entire lives on the road, or with limited living space. It has not been without some difficulties; from the point of view of a family used to the comforts of first world living, as we do, in a large house, in a well-watered, highly developed and economically wealthy society.

For all of us the adjustment to cramming in to the bus meant a shift in attitude. No space is personal other than the strict confines of one's own time and space on the mattress. Even this has to be shared on a regular basis: Suzanne & I fold our bed away during the day to make room for everyone to live. For the children this often means finding a slumbering parent in situ when trying to find a quiet space in their own bunks during the hot afternoons.

The priority of stowing “necessities” such as school books, bikes, tools, surfboards, leaves little room for the usual surplus plastic tat that builds up in bedrooms and cupboards at home. Television has been off the menu. The children have been thrown onto their own resources; and with limited materials have responded by making fabulous toys, carving, moulding, pasting, taping, stitching, knotting and generally astounding us with the number and variety of ways in which simple objects can be modified, or mixed to create days of entertainment.

Water shortage is a real issue in many parts of the dry tropics. In some areas, such as the remote deserts of Baja access to any fresh water at all may be in question, whilst in large parts of Central America fresh water may be plentiful, but contaminated with pollution from agricultural or urban waste and run-off. This translates to simple inconveniences for travelers: if there isn't any water for flushing the lavatory, whether on the bus or in a campsite, then everyone has to put up with the smell until some can be obtained. (The worst moments on the bus in this respect arise if the toothbrushes haven't been stowed properly and they fall in as we negotiate a pothole or twisting mountain road.!) Just going without a proper wash or being unable to shower, when the days are so hot, the road so dusty; is something we have had to get used to.

These are not life threatening matters of course- but they are certainly beyond the usual comfort zone that cushions our lives back home.

Privations:2

Which brings us to the question of what life is like for the poorest of those who do call Central America home. The following observations are simply a product of passing through and watching, talking, sometimes staying for a few days, with the people who live in the diverse geographic environments of this region.

Most disturbing for us as parents, is the number of children who are at work, supplementing the family income, or playing an apparently essential part in the daily struggle for survival. This is clearly linked to the relative poverty of a particular area, for example it is not so obvious in Coastal Guatemala or El Salvador, where tourism, an evolving middle class and fertile agricultural lowlands provide a degree of economic opportunity. In rural and mountainous areas of Nicaragua and Honduras however, it is prevalent. We have regularly seen children, some very young and many of primary school age, engaged in freelance “road maintenance” tasks. In practice this meant standing by the side of the road with a shovel, filling in potholes during gaps in the traffic and begging for coins as payment.

In Chiapas, despite the efforts of the Zapatistas to bring greater government attention to the plight of the region's poor; the children of Mayan Indians are employed making and selling crafts in the markets and streets; whilst children regularly ply the congested traffic jams in towns and cities from southern Mexico to Southern Nicaragua with drinks, newspapers, fruit, sweets. Throughout the dry tropical and de-forested areas of Guatemala, Nicaragua and Honduras children are seen carrying large bundles of firewood, or heavy flasks of water, along seemingly endless roads or paths, sometimes miles from the nearest obvious settlement. This doesn't all take place during school hours, but undoubtably much of it does. Whenever and wherever, it has been uncomfortable to witness as we cruise by on our holiday.

In Nicaragua, the poorest country in the Western hemisphere, a publicly paid professional such as a teacher, or policeman may earn $90-100 (about $50 sterling) per month. It doesn't take a great deal of imagination to see where this places the income levels of semi-subsistence farmers in remote villages. Such low income levels means correspondingly low levels of Government revenue and so basic public services that we take for granted are non-existent or expensive to obtain via the private sector.

One visible effect of low income levels includes the collection, treatment and disposal of domestic and industrial waste. Wherever you travel in Mexico and Central America you can tell whether an area has had a prosperous recent history or a hard struggle, by the strength of the smell of untreated sewage, the size and distribution of the garbage piles. It is difficult sometimes, for those of us who have led such easy, sanitised lives, to understand the collective mentality of a community which lives alongside the revolting product of its existence, without any apparent effort being made to sort it out. But surely only those who have no choice can properly judge why, or how this has come about. One thing is sure: poverty can be pretty unpleasant for those who live with it.

Figures and statistics, which provide governments and aid agencies with “indicators of development”, manifest themselves in the real world in the form of chilling personal experiences. On one dirt road in the South West of Nicaragua we picked up a hitch hiker, Roberto. His hand and wrist was a swollen, septic mess following an accident in the fields with his machete. The accident had happened a few days before and we asked if he had seen a doctor, or was going to see a doctor. No, he wasn't. None was available locally and the cost of treatment should he make the journey was beyond his means anyway. Amputees are commonly seen on the streets in Central America.

Even in the centre of the sophisticated tourist honeypot of Granada, we were reminded of the ever present hunger faced by many children of Nicaragua. Eating a cheap lunch in the city square we were approached by children Peony's age, first begging for change and then, distressingly, asking for our left over scraps of food.

The struggle to lift the family out of poverty leads many workers to make huge sacrifices by migrating from home, to work somewhere more prosperous in order to send money back. This seems a particularly cruel effect of the poverty trap in this region because overwhelmingly, family is of such paramount importance in the lives of these resilient people. Wherever we have been we have encountered migrant workers who speak longingly of home, describe the journeys they undertake to see loved ones.

Epi, for example was the housemaid for our landlords where we stayed with Julie and Jill at Tamarindo in the tourist- wealthy Nicoya Peninsular of Costa Rica. Her husband, parents and several children live over the border in her native Nicaragua, the entire family dependent on her income from her work, far from home. She traveled home once a month for a couple of days, to see them all, take them her wages. In Belize we met Manuel, a taxi driver from Guatemala, who spoke softly of his family and his occasional visits to his loved ones. This was a pattern repeated so often that it became hard to ignore as a prevalent trait. Overwhelmingly these migrants are engaged in low paid, service sector or agricultural work.

The distribution of migrant workers also gives us an idea of the relative wealth of their home lands. Millions of Mexicans now live and work in the US, sending their wages home. In Mexico meanwhile there are large numbers of Guatemalans and Salvadoreans working the tomato and cane fields. In Belize the tourist and sugar cane industries are served partly by Guatemalans and Hondurans. Nicaraguans gravitate North and especially South to the relative wealth of Costa Rica and Panama.

For many of these economic migrants the move involves exchanging the love and support of family and home, for a tough and lonely life of grinding hardship, in the lowest paid sectors of their chosen country of work. It is pretty sad to talk with them and realise the sacrifice they make; it is even worse that in many cases the effort they make is met with a racist and discriminatory response by the middle classes of the countries they move to and serve.

The long term effect of insecurity is perhaps, above all else, the most damaging to the prospects for a people in their efforts to make life better . Whether through war, government and private sector corruption, or natural disaster; the incentive and ability to improve things is suppressed, without the confidence that any efforts made will be rewarded with long term gains.

The history of Colonial exploitation and relentless political upheaval since has made for a turbulent background against which people in Central America have had to battle. Throw in occasional violent hurricanes and devastating earthquakes which have destroyed, in the bat of an eyelid, a whole nation's infrastructure; and you can see why things have been difficult for humans to keep moving ahead, why the ugly face of poverty has been so hard to eradicate from so beautiful and environmentally rich a region.

It seems to us as passing observers however, that the latent energy, goodwill, optimism and generosity of the people who live here will prevail over the negative forces which make the struggle such a long, hard, slog. There are signs that optimism may not be unfounded: economic stability is spreading south, with Inflation and political turmoil under control in Mexico and currency rates between the countries of Central America similarly stable. Steady improvements in the security situation since the disastrous US/ Soviet sponsored battles of the 1970s and early 80s has recently brought in increasing levels of foreign investment, tourism and trade to Salvador, Honduras and at last, Nicaragua (although alarming numbers of guns are visible throughout the region). Prices for some of the cash crops (such as sugar and Coffee) on which Nicaragua and Honduras are heavily dependent, and which plummeted at the end of the 90s have improved. There may even be an Oil bonus on the way in the region if rumours in Belize are correct (although how much benefit this will bring to environment, and to the the rural poor remains to be seen).

In Nicaragua one legacy of the Sandanista era has been a strong sense of collective and locally inspired effort: community housing projects, local organic co-operatives, working women's groups: these are visible signs that modern, progressive, inclusive projects are underway. Similarly contemporary concepts such as eco-tourism and re-forestation projects are visible in Honduras which, given the opportunity, time and stability they need, may bring some relief to the poorest people of the region.

San Cristobal Market, Chiapas

2006-04-11T10:52:00.000-07:00

Coffee Drying, Nicaragua

2006-04-11T10:48:00.000-07:00

Quickpost

2006-03-30T14:34:00.000-08:00

Quick update from Belize... all well and taking a few days off the bus. Somehow managed to find our way out to the barrier reef in a Panga. Luckily this is a pretty laid back spot so no worries finding somewhere to stay, in fact a rastsa shack on the beach is home for the time being!! Funny to be speaking English after so many months of spanglaish.

Back to Mexico next week, it's going to seem like coming home after the adventures of Central America.

Caye Caulker, Belize

2006-03-30T14:33:00.000-08:00

Tikal

2006-03-30T14:23:00.000-08:00

Heading North!!

2006-03-20T16:33:00.000-08:00

We are on the Honduras, Guatemala border, visiting the Copan Ruins. Peony has done some new photos at last. Good girl.

NEW UPDATES

2006-02-21T11:22:00.000-08:00

Tas and Harriet have been working hard on theirs.. link to see latest pix. Jemima & Peony still working on it! We're in Puerto Viejo still, surf too good to leave and the campsite too mellow.

2006-02-21T10:55:00.000-08:00

End of the McCoy! Update on Matts Surf Report

2006-02-06T17:00:00.000-08:00

Surf Camp, Costa Rica.

2006-02-06T16:59:00.000-08:00

Surf Camp, Costa Rica. Yipee.

2006-02-06T16:50:00.000-08:00

El Salvador. As we have moved deeper into countries where people have little but their freindship to give, their capacity for giving seems to have increased correspondingly. Jemima took this- Harriet, Tas & Peony, enveloped by the warmth of this welcome.

2006-02-06T16:47:00.000-08:00

Dave and Rosie... this one is for you! NOW we understand.

2006-02-06T16:45:00.000-08:00

Nicaragua. Lots of animal traction in use here still, and one thing you can't see in this pic is that it's about 1 in 3. They're working hard those cows.

2006-02-06T16:41:00.000-08:00

We thought we'd set ourselves a task, but this Guy is hard core. Czech Republic to Cape Horn via Alaska... with a trailer for the dog. Salutations Peiter.

2006-02-06T16:33:00.000-08:00

Volcanoes and mangrove swamps: traditional cast-netting from dugout canoes. Images from Coastal Guatemala.

2006-02-06T15:45:00.000-08:00

We are working on a new sport to be known, we hope, as Extreme RVing. To get the ball rolling we put the bus on this tea tray of a barge for a half hour trip through the mangroves to Monterrico Guatemala. It made it.

From Mexico to Costa Rica

2006-02-06T15:40:00.000-08:00

With our year rapidly slipping by, Christmas suddenly became a memory rather than an eagerly anticipated deadline. An expedition inland to explore a little of the Michoacan hinterland took us well into January and it was with a jolt that we realised the shortest day was long past, the spring equinox a mere couple of months away.

This was significant for a number of reasons: the sun returns to the Northern hemisphere on March 21st, bringing increased temperatures and, within a few weeks of it's arrival overhead, a wet season which lasts from May until September. In Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala, all countries we wish to explore a little this year, this leads to many dirt roads becoming impassable to any but the nimblest of vehicles. Even now in midwinter, the dry season (paradoxically known here as “summer”), the midday temperatures are at the upper tolerance limit of our cool zone constitutions- by the end of April we had to be heading back into the highlands of Mexico to stand any chance of surviving this inevitable climatic assault.

It was clear that we had to press on south fast: to reach the southern limit of our geographical goal for this journey and still have any time to explore in the dry season, we would have to start at the bottom and work up, away from the sun and rain as it spread northwards.

Suzanne spent a couple of days poring over the maps and our guidebooks. The ease of travelling in Mexico: well researched camping and driving guides, good maps and an established tourist industry throughout much of the country, was to be replaced in Central America with a relative dearth of practical information. The Lonely Planet guides are aimed primarily at backpackers: useful for finding out a little about some of the places we would be going but virtually devoid of camping and driving information. Footprint guides offer a little more in practical terms but are thin on detail for anywhere outside the main tourist destinations. We were anxious about the state of the roads, the size of our vehicle in the smaller villages and cluttered, bustling towns.

No-one of our generation or older, of course, was able to come through the late 1970s and the early eighties, without absorbing some of the imagery played out on TV screens and in newspapers; portraying Central America as a hellish battlefield, another Vietnam, a region of violence, corruption and desperate poverty; and was it not also now a region dominated by the drug barons and arms dealers? Oh the things we think of when contemplating the maps: a long stretch of winding road through difficult terrain- was this to be a hideout for bandidos, arms smugglers?.

We know this is all crazy stuff, partly the product of the propaganda fed to us by the establishment- but it's hard to put aside the lurking doubts and concentrate on the reality: people live in these places- people like us! They need shelter, food and water- like us. Their cares and concerns mirror our own: they want the best for their children, they want life to be free of anxiety and stress. There is no greater proportion of "bad" people in Central America than in North America, or England.

A little planning goes a long way: alleviating these gnawing symptoms of our first world paranoia. Putting a realistic number of kilometers on a planned route for a day and looking at where we would be, gave names to previously unknown places, gave a structure to a previously chaotic impression of the journey ahead.

What pathetic creatures we are to set such store by these small comforts: order, naming things! In this respect we're no different from our Colonial forebears who so decimated the indigenous societies they discovered here: carving up the territory into parcels, drawing lines on maps to suit their administrative needs; although we find it harder, and are ashamed, to understand their motivation in destroying magnificent buildings, burying artistic and cultural history, dismantling ancient institutions; because these represented the unknown- and therefore threatening- independence of the people they found here.

The Border crossings: six countries in three weeks.
Partly a legacy of the Colonial (and especially Spanish) subdivision of Central America, and one of the nagging anxieties about planning this stage of our journey was the prospect of driving through so many (potentially difficult) borders. Central America has a very high concentration of nation states in a relatively tight geographical area. Decades of political turmoil, the flow of migrants towards the US, smuggling of drugs one way and weapons the other; all these factors would inevitably lead us into a morass of paperwork and intense scrutiny, as we passed through.

Overland border crossings in any case act like funnels: from all points of the compass travelers converge to process their way through: some on long journeys, hauling cargo or migrants, others simply popping to the next village to sell some oranges, visit a sick relative. Few smart business travelers, or wealthy tourists, are seen at these overland borders compared to airports or ferry terminals. There are no air conditioned enclaves within which they could escape the hoi-polloi, no fast-track here. This is seething, Hogarthian humanity, laid bare: at the mercy of the security forces of the governments which try to keep all these people under control. Everyone must present themselves at immigration, no-one escapes the scrutiny of customs. You join the queue: and if the family in front of you have a document out of place, if the guy at the desk needs to knock off for breakfast, if the officer at the vehicle inspection point is chasing up someones licence.... then you wait. Till tomorrow if need be.

This concentration of people on the move, spawns an entire, and chaotic community on each side of the borders , dedicated to servicing the needs of those caught up in the daily drama. Money changers strut around shuffling thick wads of cash, offering terrible exchange rates to the vulnerable or unwary. “Dollars? Quetzellas? Lempiras?Cordobas? Collones? You want them? Good rate!” Self proclaimed “official guides” besiege arriving vehicles offering to help with paperwork- for a fee. Everywhere people on the move, and everywhere others simply watching, propping up street corners and lampposts, sitting in groups on the dusty pavements, watching and waiting.

Photocopy shops do a roaring trade! Each department: immigration, customs, vehicle inspection, temporary importation, police; requires at least two copies of passports, driving licences, ownership title, temporary insurance (has to be bought on the street outside). Copies of previous import and export documents from other countries visited add to the paper pile. Street vendors and restaurants keep everyone fed and watered. Guest houses provide the beds for those too exhausted, or late, to make it through the border that day. And all the time there are fees to pay here, propinas (tips) to hand out there; and to smooth the passage through the roughest channels, small bribes that are an almost institutional part of the whole process.

And woe betide you if you have lost a crucial document- we met travellers who missed a critical stamp on a crucial page, leaving Honduras, ended up having to go through the entire process twice, taking a twenty four hour delay and hefty “fines” into the bargain. As for the poor American chap who was trying to do Indiana to Costa Rica in a week with a DOG in tow... you could almost see the customs and agricultural inspectors faces light up with glee as he walked into their offices! Six borders and hundreds of dollars in “animal transit fees” down the line when we met him, his final humiliating, ignominous crossing into Costa Rica was marked by a loud crash as he scraped the ramp of the vehicle sanitation gate, his exhaust pipe left lying in the road behind his dusty vehicle. We had to laugh, but the dark rings under his eyes gave us some sense of how exhausted he was by the stress of the whole business.

For us it has got easier as we have gone along. Three weeks was actually plenty of time to make this journey, from Chiapas, allowing a few days between border crossings for recovery time and some R&R along the way in Guatemala, Nicaragua and El Salvador (The small, westernmost finger of Honduras we crossed in a day). We got pretty used to the routine by the end, learning some basic rules along the way:

Rule one is don't stop for anyone in the ten miles before the border unless they are in uniform and carrying a gun.
Rule two is to pick the “guide” with the nicest smile/ kindest eyes as soon as you get to the border itself and agree a small fee ( usually a couple of bucks). This sorts out the rest of the hustlers who give up as soon as they realise you're sorted. Your guide actually turns out to be quite useful too! Usually knows the best place to get a juicy mango while waiting for a stamp or document to be issued.
Rule three is to allow all day and keep very calm- we arrived before 8am at nearly all the crossings. That way when you make it through after only two or three hours you are delighted to have had such an easy time of it.
Rule four, if you can, is to let people know you are from Europe (not the US. To put it kindly, the Americans have a chequered past in this region and you never know the history of the individual you are dealing with). Do this at every opportunity.
Rule five is to present as many blonde children as possible at all stages of the beaurocratic process. Instantaneous softening of atmosphere, marked increase in speed of typing, immediate reduction in fees, etc.

It would be unappreciative not to end this rather negative blog without properly noting the positive aspects of this experience. First, in El Salvador, where there is a concerted effort being made to clean up the entire, shabby, border crossing system. The hustlers at the El Sal. Border with Guatemala were muted- clearly the result of a clampdown by the authorities. Inside the El Salvador border station large notices in three languages announced that the Customs and immigration system was a free service, that there was no need to pay anyone either inside or outside the system. Furthermore we were guided through the entire system by an individual officer who walked with us from department to department explaining what was required along the way. It was a refreshing and uplifting experience.

The second, more general positive aspect of all of this, was how vibrant, cheerful and polite everyone was in the face of this overwhelmingly frustrating, slightly intimidating system. It gives us a little insight, opens a small window, marks Central America out as a region where decades of turmoil, corruption and violence; crimes of occupation and suppression perpetrated by few, suffered by many; these many trials have not been able to suppress the basic good nature and good will of the people. We were to find this again on our brief stops along the way- it gives us confidence that our fears were unfounded and we will find our way here, these next few months.

Julie, we are waiting for you!

2006-02-03T09:17:00.000-08:00

2006-02-03T09:15:00.000-08:00

Oh Nicaragua, we love you! We'll be heading back here soon... This pic taken from the Costa Rican side as we head south to Nicoya for an eagerly anticipated rendevous with Julie.

2006-02-03T09:10:00.000-08:00

Peony's cracked it! The little blue board is called the Liquid Shredder! Clever girl. Oh, and thats Tas flying along the wall in the background. Nicaraguan waves. More pix of the kids getting the hang of things in Matt's Surf report.

The Rebalsito Rodeo

2006-01-10T17:18:00.000-08:00

The Rodeo

“Soy Libre!”, I'm Free! Announced the invitation-cum-programme for this surreal event. Below these words the face of a grey haired, jovial, Mestizo man looked at us from an out-of- focus photograph. Juan Carlos Jesus Renardo, a big man in the small town of Rebalsito, where we found ourselves soon after Christmas.

Juan Carlos, in addition to his fund raising, Ejido and community activities, was the president of the Rebalsito Rodeo committee. He had died in February 2005 and this was to be the first Christmas Rodeo for many decades without him.

Rebalsito was gearing up to out-do any party they had thrown for many a year. The Plaza del Toros to be re-dedicated in honour of the deceased. A new concrete tablet at the entrance, inscribed with his name and draped in silk, to be unveiled by his widow. The field and dirt lots surrounding the bull ring was cleared of litter; weeds and scrub burnt. For the few days before it was as if a bush fire had swept through. The town square and surrounding streets were festooned with gaudy bunting, fluttering in the sunlight all day, occasionally dragged in tatters along the streets by over-height vehicles.

The afternoon of the much anticipated fiesta finally came, Christmas had seemed almost like a distraction in this town, celebrated mutely in comparison. The generosity and overwhelming goodwill of these proud people had meant an open invitation to anyone staying in the area was issued. The population of the town and surrounding villages was swelled by Mexican tourists camping in the area; and a few Gringoes dotted around stood out in the crowd, but none was welcomed the less.

By the time we arrived in the town square, at about four in the afternoon, the party was in full swing. Nothing had been left unattended- vast stacks of beer were piled up in the corners of the covered marketplace. Ranks of long trestle tables, crowded from end to end with the chaos of a banquet in full swing: children on their parent's knees chewing at chicken bones. Extended family groups, the very old and the very young, cared for by the teenagers and parents. Men in T shirts bearing the photograph of Juan Carlos and the “Soy Libre” slogan, marched up and down the aisles, disributing with bottles of free beer, before scuttling back to the mountainous supplies for more.

In one corner a twenty-piece Mariachi band was thumping out the Rhumbas, Ballads and Fanfares of the classic Mexican mealtime accompaniment- at five times the size and volume normally seen in the restaurants, or on the Malecon. Dressed in their whites, with the smartest sombreros available; the vocalists sang their hearts out, playing battered, much loved instruments. These musicians were giving it their all despite the afternoon heat. Already a few teenagers were dancing in the aisles, swaying and stepping easily in the rhythm that seems to come so naturally. Why can't we dance like that?

Quite suddenly the crowd in the marketplace moved, although no announcement had been made. As a body they rose, conversations unbroken, the band still playing. A procession was next on the agenda and the band was to lead the way! Through the streets and out of town the crowd swayed and straggled, some dancing behind the band, some walking, some like us, on bikes, others noisily piling into pickup trucks, all heading for the bull ring.

As the procession arrived in the dirt lot outside the ring, the widow of the deceased, with a few close family and friends, gathered at the new tablet. The crowd settled around them and a series of speeches were made to respectful silence; broken, bizarrely, by fanfares from the band and rousing applause whenever the speakers introduced friends or spoke of Juan Carlos's achievements.

The speeches over and the memorial unveiled it was time for the serious business of the evening to begin. Here was the moment one felt the whole afternoon had been building towards. Preliminaries involving dancing horses and twirling of lassos were just a teaser, light entertainment offered to the crowd as they took their places on the concrete tiers encircling the arena. The band played raucously on, perched above the crowd. More mountains of free beer were plied by the attendants. As if on cue, the sun settled over the horizon, dusk quickly came and went. The floodlights came on, and the action began.

This was the point at which the rodeo became a cultural needle. Injected into the proceedings with a sharp rush of adrenaline. Those unaccustomed to the brutality, to the sudden change in tempo were shocked out of their celebratory haze. The first bull, it's young rider cinched mercilessly to it's broad back with a single rope, leaped from the crush into the arena. A few brief seconds of fierce bucking and twisting, of heroic efforts to remain mounted; before the vaquero was flung to the ground, one leg crushed instantly under a single hoof bearing the weight of perhaps a tonne of muscle and bone. Then sickeningly, a fleeting moment of contact between flailing hoof and head.

The cowboys and clowns rushed to distract the bull, the unconscious rider dragged unceremoniously from the ring, one attendant fanning wildly with his sombrero, another emptying cans of cold beer into his face in a vain attempt to wake him. The crowd swayed, the band played on.

It took a while for us to register what we had witnessed, but Suzanne was unable to watch more without at least finding out whether the poor fellow had recovered. We left the children with John and Sharon, our Alaskan friends, and went back to the dirt lot to see what was happening. I paused to look over the floodlit arena. The bull, still enraged, four lassos taught to the saddles of four cowboys, was as strong and fresh as ever. It took a full five minutes for the cowboys to edge him close enough to the gate and out of the arena to safety.

I joined Suzanne in the car park, where she had been watching efforts to revive the wounded rider. She was pretty concerned. I was still high on the euphoria of the crowd, the beer and all that had been going on around us. As we watched, the drama turned farcical for a moment as an open roofed, red sports car reversed wildly up to the spot where the patient was lying in the dust. As roughly as he had been dragged from the ring he was bundled into the back seat, folloewd by three attendants. The car sped off. The last we saw of them they were disappearing in a cloud of dust, four smart white sombreros visible above the sleek red sides of the car, two in the back, two in the front; and a sad, limp, booted leg sticking out of one side window.

It took a long time, and some help from Sharon, who appeared at our side, to persuade Suzanne that this had been an accident, not a foregone conclusion. I wanted to believe that the wonderful, cultural experience we were lucky enough to be witnessing was still just that: machismo was not the only point of the whole thing; surely the gladiatorial spectacle that had just led to a young life being so endangered deserved another look before final judgement could be made. Why injuries happen in all contact sports!

Suzanne was not so sure: for this young man it would have been a matter of absolute pride to have somehow struggled back into the ring, to take his bow in front of the crowd. If he was unable to do that then there was a serious problem- he might well have been killed or permanently brain-damaged. No ambulances in attendance, no safety systems to mitigate the inevitable risks posed by this “sport”. For her any disregard for human or animal welfare is questionable- in the same way as for other outdated and cruel sports: boxing, fox hunting. More importantly, the idea that she should be entertained at the expense of suffering for another human was almost more than she could bear.

I knew what she meant. For me however, that evening was not over, the story not told until every chapter had been read. I wanted to return to the heady fiesta we had been a part of until half an hour before. Reluctantly putting aside her qualms, Suzanne followed Sharon & I back to our places. As we climbed the bank of earth behind our section of the arena, other traumatised tourists were leaving, unable to cope with further shocks.

As it turned out the rest of the action proved relatively uneventful. Between each ride was a long pause while the next bull was maneuvered into the crush, it's rider cinched onto it's back. The beer flowed on, the music became more and more raucous. First couples, then whole families took to the cramped platform to dance in front of the band, high above the arena. We found ourselves swept up once more by the euphoria surrounding us. On the dance floor, blonde haired Jemima was embarrassed to find herself the subject of droopy-eyed attention from a handsome young Mexican lad.

It took a long time- two hours, for the following four bulls to be ridden, some more successfully than others. No more injuries, no more drama. We left before the very end- with one torch between us and a drunken crowd about to hit the roads we wanted clear of the area- and bicycled home to our campsite. The children far less perturbed than their parents by what they had witnessed earlier. “I felt more sorry for the Bulls than the people.” said Harriet.

2006-01-10T17:17:00.000-08:00

Awaiting the first Ride

2006-01-10T17:16:00.000-08:00

the band plays on

The sad tail of Fluffy the Poodle

2006-01-01T16:29:00.000-08:00

Fluffy, hot under the collar

A new years tail, the grisly end of Fluffy the poodle.

News from home that Dad has been unwell and unable to come out to join us has been a great blow to the children who were all really looking forward to it. I know Mum would have had a good laugh over this story, so, this is for you, Dad. Get well soon!

We have been staying in a variety of Campsites since arriving in mainland Mexico. There are many that cater to the “snowbirds”, usually Canadian, but many norteamericanos, retired couples who escape the harsh winters of their homelands for the sunshine of these balmy latitudes.

Sadly these tend to be “gated communities” of expensive motor homes, about as far removed from the Mexico around them as it is possible to be, with neat concrete pads, potted plants, proper sewers and electrical hookups, providing space for these winter migrants to set up comfortable lives, living like kings and queens in their palaces, with buying power beyond the reach of those outside the gates.

We have generally shunned these sites as a matter of principle, opting for the beaches and sites catering to travelers or Mexican families, or when we find ourselves approaching dusk with no-where to stay, simply knocking on a door in a quiet neighborhood and asking if it's OK to park outside for the night.

Occasionally however we make a pit stop to charge the batteries, use the washing machines & showers at one of these smarter “RV parks”. Here we meet some of the “snowbirds” and hear their stories.

Suzanne bumped into Reg, a silver haired chap from Northern California, walking his neat little poodle, one sunny morning in December. For want of a better subject, and to avoid drawing attention to the revolting plastic bag Reg was sheepishly trying to conceal behind his back, she cooed some niceties about Georgie's fluffy coat.

Reg explained that Georgie had recently been taken to the dog grooming parlour, a practice now common in California, indeed we had seen quite a few of these places in the high streets and malls when we were there. Turns out Georgie was actually a replacement for Fluffy, a much loved, aged forebear. And so begins the sorry tale of Fluffy's demise.

Reg had taken Fluffy to the dog groomer back home in California, dropped her off at the appointed hour and gone off to do some errands. The three hour session was due to end at one, so Reg pulled up outside the Parlor at five-to, and was getting out of the car when the groomstress appeared at the parlour door, Red-eyed and distraught.

“Fluffy, Fluffy's dead” she blurted out, barely able to speak with the distress evident in her voice.

Reg was stunned: Fluffy, dead! How? He had only dropped her off a couple of hours ago to have her coat trimmed and her claws polished, what on earth could have happened? A heart attack?

“What do you mean Fluffy's dead, what on earth happened?”

“He's dead” wailed the groomstress. “I put her in the dryer and forgot her and now she's dead”.

“Left her in the dryer! You cooked my dog! Where is she? Where's her body?”

“I haven't got her body”

“What do you mean you haven't got her body? Wheres my dog? I want her body now!”

“ I can't give you her body because I took her to the vet and had her cremated. Here, this is her ashes in this pot!” She held out the small box.

Reg boiled over: “This is outrageous! Call yourself a dog groomer! Your'e not fit to look after animals! You cooked my dog and then you had her cremated without my permission and now I can't even say goodbye to her!”

“Go ahead sue me.” Cried the hapless woman. “I'm finished anyway, I've done with this job and I'm off, you sue me if you want, there's no money.”

With that she turned and ran back into the Parlour, slamming the door and leaving Reg, speechless in the road. Bewildered, he got back into the car and drove home. All night he sat at the kitchen table with his wife, Deidre, coming to terms with their loss and trying to decide how to respond to this dreadful catastrophe. The mixed feelings of sorrow and outrage made it hard to decide how to act.

The following day dawned bright and sunny and Reg had to go to the shops to buy some milk. Still dazed from the shock of the previous day he pulled into the petrol station to fill up with gas.

At the pump he saw Lydia from down the road. As soon as she saw him she started purposefully towards him, brimming with gossip. Reg was hardly in the mood for pleasantries, but his defences were low and he was unable to muster any excuses.

“Oh Reg! I've just heard the most awful story, you're not going to believe what's happened at the dog Groomers!”

Reg, as if in a dream, slowly became aware that the story now being recounted, far from being one of Lydia's usual banal pieces of tittle tattle, in fact concerned him.

“..and so there she was grooming this dog, she'd just put the little thing in the dryer when she heard a scream from her litle girl. She's only six you know. Well, anyway, she ran outside to see what was going on and her dear little Scottie, you know the little black one, well it had run out into the road and been run over right in front of the little girl's eyes, poor little dear. “

Reg was only very slowly assimilating the information that was coming to him, he couldn't speak.

“So there she was comforting her little girl, and scraping poor Angus off the road, and all the time trying to be brave, because she loved that little dog; and there was the driver to look after of course... well, it all took a while, and all this time the dryer was going inside and she'd completely forgotten about it!...”

The horrific story needed no further elaboration for Reg- he already knew the rest- but Lydia was in full flow.

“Well, you can imagine! When the mess was cleared up outside she came back in and it was only then that she saw the dryer was still running and the poor little dog inside was cooked to a cinder! She rushed it to the vet apparently but he couldn't save the little dog.”

Reg could bear it no longer, he was sudenly roused out of his dreamlike state.

“Lydia, it was me, I mean it was Fluffy! It was Fluffy in the dryer!”

For a moment Lydia looked at Reg as if he had hit her- and then she recovered her senses and, overwhelmed with the enormity of what Reg had revealed to her, she subsided into panic stricken condolences.

“Oh Reg! I'm so sorry, I can't believe it, you must be so upset! And poor little Fluffy! Oh and what a terrible thing.”

“I know” said Reg, “and I can't think what to do- all last night I was thinking I would report this woman to the animal health inspectors, and I gave her a pretty hard time really- she must be devestated. She didn't even mention the accident! I must go immediately and tell her I know everything. That I understand how it all happened.”

Reg ran to his car, forgetting to fill up his petrol tank, sped to the Dog Groomers. He parked outside and walked briskly to the door- but it was locked. He peered through the glass front of the shop and was shocked to see that the entire place had been gutted. No stands, pictures of show winning dogs, racks of combs and scissors, shampoos and conditioners. Only one piece of equipment remained to indicate what the shop might once have been used for. The shiny metal dog dryer was standing, where it had always stood, against the far wall of the shop.

2005-12-31T14:27:00.000-08:00

Swell christmas present from Santa!!

Hola from the Christmas Camp, Tenacatita, Manzanillo.

2005-12-23T15:29:00.000-08:00

Christmas Camp, the Ice cream van comes at 11, the bread van at 11.30, the beer van at 12. On one side of the sandspit is sunrise, on the other sunset. FELIZ NAVIDAD AMIGOS

2005-12-13T21:13:00.000-08:00

The "Isla Del Carmen", Punta San Jacinto, Baja

2005-12-13T15:14:00.000-08:00

Humpback showing off to Harriet on her Birthday

First Blog from Mexico

2005-12-13T15:10:00.000-08:00

This is our first go at this so bear with us/ switch off if it all gets too excruciating. After months of struggling to get our internet provider in the UK to accept photo images on our emails home we have given up and this is an attempt at an alternative route. Lets see if it works!!

We're in a beautiful area just to the north of Puerto Vallarta (P.V to locals), with a swell forecast to hit some time in the next 24 hours. In fact as I write this I can hear waves beginning to pound the beach, bodes well for the morning.

Speaking of which it IS actually now the morning, 4.36 in the morning to be precise. The combination of rumbling surf noises, cockerels hard at it nearby and a post Margarita wave of nausea (too much detail?) have forced me out of bed. Still it's not a bad time of day to try and sort this blog out... at last.

We'll try and put a few links to useful/interesting sites on the sidebar. So far the ones I have tried have been blocked. This may be something to do with my technophobiclumsia, or it COULD be because they are US government sites (mainly surf and weather forecasting sites) and therefore blocked. I am suspicious partly because I know that blogs from US servicemen and women in Iraq have been causing some consternation within the US establishment, perhaps their relationship with blogger has become strained. We'll see.

For camping over the next few days we have a number of options to choose from, as we are staying in this area until after christmas. They range from busy and rather touristy satelite villages to the North of P.V., with smart and expensive R.V. parks (full of, well, smart and expensive R.Vs); to spots we have discovered down gravel roads a little further to the North with nothing but turtles and coconuts for company. In between are campsites with limited facilities, fantastic beaches, and a few gunk-holing travellers.

Each have their merits!! The former options score points for the ready availabilty of tacos and cerveza, while internet access and swimming pools are plus points for the kids. The latter for the freedom and uncrowded paradise on offer if you are willing to explore & rough it a bit.

Highlights on the Mainland so far include the wonderful city of Mazatlan, where the ferry from Baja arrived soon after sunrise. We rose from our bunks at dawn to see the mountains of Sinaloa from the top deck of the ferry. It was a stirring experience. Steam and mist hung over the GREEN hillsides beyond the city. A complete contrast to the desert landscape we had left behind in Baja.

Mazatlan itself a chaotic and bustling city with a fantastic market. Piles of meat, fish, fruit and vegetables, woven, carved and sculpted artwork. The kids bicycled around for a bit, particularly up and down the Malecon. Many of the coastal cities we have visited so far have these excellent waterfront pavements, used by families to stroll, chat, bike, skate, long into the balmy evenings and on lazy afternoons.

When the bikes became too terrifying in the chaos of traffic we caught buses, marvelling at the colourful cityscape, the huge variety and ingenuity of stalls and workshops in the commercial streets. How sad it seems that development, and economic prosperity somehow supresses that side of our culture: the side which pushes us to improvise, invent, repair. Our cities and shops at home in the Uk; and certainly those we visited in the States appear very monocultural and rather bland in comparison.

2005-12-13T15:07:00.000-08:00

So now we know where he lives!

2005-12-13T15:04:00.000-08:00

against the odds, normal halloween service continues

Baja by Bus

2005-12-13T14:57:00.000-08:00

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.

Sea of Cortez

2005-12-13T13:45:00.000-08:00

Not all of our off-road wanderings led to the Pacific Coast of Baja. In fact the transpeninsular highway, MEX1, wanders from the Pacific side to the Cortez coast, crossing the wild and beautiful desert plains; and the rugged mountain ranges that form the spine of the peninsular. Adopting the same principle on the East coast as we had on the West, we looked for any side roads that might take us to the beach, and sure enough, there were beaches!

The Sea of Cortez had long held a fascination for us, not least because of the wild ravings of a certain Mr. Christopher Swann, reknowned cetacean expert and energetic explorer. Emails from him in recent years offered us a hint of the teeming marine wildlife to be found here. Nevertheless we were un-prepared for the extraordinary abundance we discovered on our first days camped on this coast.

Our first view of the sea as we descended the last few winding kilometers from the desert plateau: completely breathtaking. Islands enclosed the sweeping bay before us. The sea and sky locked in a tremendous argument, so it appeared, as to who could be the bluest. Hardly a breath of wind rippled the surface of the water, so that even at a distance of perhaps six or seven kilometers, it looked like a sheet of silk more than the ruffled, glinting surface one would expect of such a large body of water. Having crossed from a November Pacific, where there is never a dull moment on the surface of the water, this absolute flatness seemed almost artificial, as if in a slightly unrealistic painting.

It certainly looked inviting; and within a few minutes of pulling up at the shore, the children were snorkels-on and under water, trilling with the unbounded joy of finding the water temperature a full 5 or 6 celcius higher than the Pacific, no wetsuit required- at last!

We had stumbled across an excellent fishing camp, guided by the thoroughly researched Camping Baja and the excellent fishing bible Baja Catch. These along with the Surfers Guide have been indispensable companions for the journey (Most dog's ears would be insulted).

A few kilometers along the shoreline from the fishing camp, Bahia de Los Angeles boasts a quiet little Mexican town. A couple of hotels and the few expat. Gringoes dotted around in permenant motorhome-cum-palapas, supplement the income of local fishermen, the ubiquitous Pangueros. By and large however it is an unspoilt, working town, it's just in the most extraordinary location!

With Suzanne's birthday imminent, the children became increasingly anxious that the haul of trick-or-treating swag might be reduced this year, possibly even limited to the festering biscuits left in our own cupboards. We were all delighted therefore, to find that the Mexicans had discovered trick-or treating as well. It wasn't entirely clear whether the herd of children that arrived, well before dark, were only raiding gringos, or whether they were touring town as well, but either way the game was clearly on!

Suzanne of course had managed to conceal a stash of sweeties in case of need, and when our gang saw the sweets dissapearing from under their noses there was a scramble for costumes. We had taken advantage of the pre halloween hysteria in California and stocked up with hats, false teeth, horrid wigs, fake blood etc. and so off they set, sheepish parents in tow, for a tour of the campsite and nearby palapas. What had seemed like a hopeless cause turned into a bonanza in the most unlikely of settings.

And Swanny's wildlife ravings? Well of course it all turned out to be completely true. Within a couple of days we had caght ridiculous numbers of fish, swum with a pod of Whale sharks; and the children had become attuned, and savage enough, to be pulling Octupus from beneath the rocks with their bare hands, before gutting them on the spot with their teeth...think I'm joking?

2005-12-13T12:24:00.000-08:00

First view of the Sea of Cortez, Bahia de Los Angeles

2005-12-13T12:04:00.000-08:00

Baja's extraordinary desert landscape

2005-12-13T11:59:00.000-08:00

Parked on the beach at punta Rosarito

2005-12-13T05:35:00.000-08:00

releasing leatherback turtle hatchlings on the beach, Bahia de Tortugas

Bahia de Tortugas, Nayarit

An emotional experience for all of us, perhaps Tas in particular. We found ourselves here by chance- none of our maps or camping guides had mentioned this place. As we drove down from San Blas towards Puerto Vallarta a sign by the roadside pointed towards Bahia de Tortugas. Tasman's lifelong obsession with all shellbacked creatures means that anything even vaguely related to turtles warrants closer inspection; And a ten kilometer gravel road was nothing to some of the washboards of Baja!

We found ourselves driving through a flood plain, flat and well farmed with fertile soil and shallow wells dug here and there for irrigating the crops, corn, beans and grazing for cattle. As we neared the coast and the soil became more sandy, coconut plantations appeared and soon we were in the thick of a very large grove of palm trees. This was more like a forest than a grove, stretching for several kilometers along the ocean, perhaps a kilometer deep, and our track had now turned to run parrelel with the coast, so we were driving right through this beautiful stand of palms. The afternoon sunlight shone through the fronds above and bathed the entire scene in a flourescent green and gold glow. It was obviously taking us somewhere special, this track.

Eventually we wiggled down to the end of the lane and found that we were not the only ones to have thought this looked like a nice spot. Some very fancy houses appeared in the distance and we feared for a moment that the whole thing might have been privatised. The great thing about Mexico, however, is that NO-ONE can own the beach! So we were able to drive right through the palm trees some distance away from the houses, and park completely free, right on the beach!

This truly was a lovely campsite, we had to position ourselves quite carefully to avoid the considerable risk posed from above (apparently more people are killed by falling coconuts than by sharks); but once safely tucked in, our view was the ocean, our shelter the rustling palm fronds, our floor a carpet of soft grass. As we stepped out of the palms onto the beach we saw that the pristine, palm fringed sand stretched away to the south as far as we could clearly see; and only in the far distance, perhaps six or eight kilometers away did the coast turn again, where the next rocky promotory jutted into the Pacific.

It all seemed pretty idyllic and there only remained a couple of missing pieces for the "nice spot" jigsaw to be complete, and, sure enough this place had it all. Perfect waves were wrapping around the rocky point a few hundred yards up the beach to the North!. A very pretty river ran out into the sea below making for an easy paddle out in the deep water created by it's flow. To cap it all, beach side of the smart houses we had seen when we first arrived, was a small cluster of buildings which to Tas's delight, turned out to be a government sponsored Turtle conservation camp.

Apparently the sea turtle population in this area had become so threatened by the long history of human persecution that the Mexican Government stepped in to try and sort the problem out. They established a number of these camps up and down the coast. The staff patrol the beaches where the turtles nest, at night when the eggs are being laid. Once the mother returns to the sea, her mission accomplished, the eggs are recovered and incubated at the camp. 50 days later they hatch and within a few hours the hatchlings are released into the sea.

By controlling the time of day and the location of the release; and by protecting the eggs in the first place, the percentage of live hatchlings returned to the sea is as high as 90% of the original egg numbers. The result has been a 30% increase in the population of returning adult turtles over the 15 years the programme has been running- an outstanding success given the catastrophic decline in numbers over the prvious two hundred years. Maybe, just maybe, they have acted in time.

We were lucky enough to be here during one of the peak release periods; so one evening, with Meche, the marine biologist in charge, we took trayloads of tiny turtles down to the shoreline and placed them carefully on the sand. Of four hundred hatchlings, newly emerged from their eggs, not a single one set off in the wrong direction! After a puzzled pause, and in dribs and drabs, they set off towards the surf, poor little things! Washed in repeatedly and thrown onto their backs by the surge of the waves, we were kept busy putting them back upright again whilst keeping an eye out for circling vultures, gulls and pelicans.

After half an hour or so, with sand flies biting our ankles and wrists (no insect repellent allowed!), we were watching the stragglers battle their way into the vast ocean. Such tiny creatures in such an awesome space. It was an enormously uplifting experience, but one tinged with sadness at the thought of the struggle ahead. So few of course, would escape predation, pollution, fishing nets and longlines, and eventually return to this beach.

For the next 8 years they would drift and swim around the great circuit of the Pacific currents. Down with the California current to the equator, across with the equatorial drift and north again past melanesia into the Kuro Shio, the Pacific version of the Gulf Stream which shoots past Japan. Eventually, when they are ready, the circuit brings them home, to the very beach from where they departed, even though their only experience of that beach would be the brief struggle from nest to surf line. The level and power of such instinct is beyond our comprehension. The very lucky ones may return annually, after this first long swim, to nest again for up to a hundred years. Remarkable creatures indeed.

Inevitably we holed up here for as long as the water lasted; and with surf every morning, turtles to release in the evening... could probably have spent the entire year here really! But... we're on a mission. Could be we'll never find somewhere as nice again!

2005-12-13T04:27:00.000-08:00

Cerritos, southern Baja