Beware Mexicans Bearing Time Shares, And Other Adventures In Baja: Part One
One reason why I moved to California from Montana was for the chance to see whales again. That dream has now been fulfilled, although it required a trip to Baja California Sur and Laguna San Ignacio. In and of itself, that would be a milestone in my life, but the trip to Mexico was so much more. For one thing, I now have completed the trifecta in my passport, with a stamp from each signatory of NAFTA--for the record, the US count now stands as one friendly immigration officer, two total bastards for customs officers (apparently if you aren't married, you can't go up to the customs officer at the same time, even if you live together, which is fine, but that's no reason for condescension.)
Flying down the Baja Peninsula was flying over a narrow strip of brown land, rumpled with mountains like someone sleeping under a thick comforter, with the occasional silver flash, like a necklace reflecting the sun, where presumably water flowed in one of the many washes. For the most part, though, the channels were dry and dusty, and I could see long, lonely roads cutting straight across the landscape, arriving at some isolated home. As we got closer to Loreto, though, I saw the Sea of Cortes touching the shore, and the contrast of turquoise, green, blue against the brown land was beautiful.
The airport reminded me of that in Kona, Hawaii, in that it was a small building with lots of flowers in front, and it felt like we were landing in a decent-sized parking lot. It did not take long to pass through Immigration. The first difference I saw between Mexico and San Francisco was that, while the signs were still written in both English and Spanish, the Spanish came first this time.
Through the first door after the customs lady asked me two short questions and had me press a button that lit a green light, I found myself by a desk with two very official-looking locals and white shirts and ties. It seemed like a secondary inspection, and the security officer encouraged me to go over.
They asked me a few questions about how long I was going to be in town, but when they asked me if my girlfriend and I wanted to go to a nice local resort and help them shoot a commercial, I realized these were the time-share people Marina warned me about, so I politely smiled and declined and started backing away, despite the tide of maps and entreaties with which they tried to ply me. We would find these well-dressed people in Loreto's center as well, persistently trying to get us to talk to them, not accepting a polite smile and a no thank you. "Honeymooners, eh?" "What did we ever do to you?" (actual quotes) They hung on like a cold.
I did take advantage of them to get an additional map of the town center, with an indication of how to get to our hotel, to go with the hand drawn map the owner of the Hotel Posada Del Cortes had given us.
I don't speak Spanish, at least nothing beyond some basic phrases ("Donde esta el bano" worked perfectly, but when I asked a waiter for a check one time, he brought butter instead, so something went wrong there). You will understand my trepidation at having to rent a car by myself, without Marina there as a translator, and then driving into town all by myself. Marina had been in Mexico for a few days at a conference, and was coming into town via bus that same day, so she couldn't meet me at the airport.
As with many things I've fretted about in my life, this mountain became a molehill fairly quickly. The representative of the car rental agency spoke English very well, which is no surprise for a tourist industry. He called me "Amigo" so often, though, that I wondered if he calls everyone "Amigo" or just the tourists. The Jeep Liberty we had reserved was not available, apparently, but instead, they gave me a big white Chevy pickup truck. Me and pickup trucks mix as naturally as dogs and grey whales. Yes, I know, I'm from Montana, but I'm a bad Montanan: I've never hunted or skied, and I only fished a few times when I was 10.
The truck certainly felt as big as a grey whale. The highway was empty as I maneuvered out of the parking lot and turned north towards Loreto, passing cacti left and right--that was my "ah ha, Mexico!" moment, or at least one of them. I was a bit cautious, figuring out how the truck handled, and looking for a speed limit sign--my adherence to speed limits would drive Marina crazy, as apparently I was the only one in all of Mexico, including the Mexicans, who paid the speed limit signs any attention; but in my defense, there was a sign that read "Obedezcan los senales" (Obey the signs"), and I was particularly inclined not to speed on the Monday after we left Loreto, when we passed through a military checkpoint and passed several convoys of Mexican soldiers wearing black ski-masks.
Even though I was on high-alert as a driver, I did manage to savor the thought that I was driving a pickup truck down Highway 1 in Mexico, passing cacti and covering three kilometers almost devoid of other traffic. It felt epic, as if I were a combination of Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash. And I managed to cover the distance with no problem, and the hand-drawn map guided me unerringly to the hotel, and I pulled up in front of the hotel in the big white truck as sunset began, and just as Marina was walking up the street, so that pretty much made me a travel star, I think.
We settled in to the Hotel Posada Del Cortes, with a lovely balcony attached to our room, and a glorious rooftop terrace with a view across the city, taking in the tower of the mission, palm trees, a cell phone tower disguised as a palm tree, and the mountains of the Sierra de la Giganta, and from there we walked down the street to the waterfront, or the Malecon.
Looking at the water was soothing. The following day, Sunday, we would be taking a boat trip to one of the islands off-shore, part of a marine reserve, but tonight we just wandered to the water and then back along the Avenida Salvatierra, a pedestrian thoroughfare where children were playing and running. This reminded me of my trip to Mallorca, when children were playing soccer in a wide alleyway, with flagstones and rain. You don't see children playing in the streets like this in San Francisco. On Sunday Streets, yes, you will see families out walking and biking, but that's different. Even somewhere like the Sunset, a more residential district, the streets and sidewalks are quiet, devoid of kids.
Also, I saw the greatest bench ever.
We ate that night at a restaurant called the Singing Parakeet, but that's a subject for a food blog entry, to be posted in the near future. For now, I'll sign off. More to come tomorrow!
Flying down the Baja Peninsula was flying over a narrow strip of brown land, rumpled with mountains like someone sleeping under a thick comforter, with the occasional silver flash, like a necklace reflecting the sun, where presumably water flowed in one of the many washes. For the most part, though, the channels were dry and dusty, and I could see long, lonely roads cutting straight across the landscape, arriving at some isolated home. As we got closer to Loreto, though, I saw the Sea of Cortes touching the shore, and the contrast of turquoise, green, blue against the brown land was beautiful.
The airport reminded me of that in Kona, Hawaii, in that it was a small building with lots of flowers in front, and it felt like we were landing in a decent-sized parking lot. It did not take long to pass through Immigration. The first difference I saw between Mexico and San Francisco was that, while the signs were still written in both English and Spanish, the Spanish came first this time.
Through the first door after the customs lady asked me two short questions and had me press a button that lit a green light, I found myself by a desk with two very official-looking locals and white shirts and ties. It seemed like a secondary inspection, and the security officer encouraged me to go over.
They asked me a few questions about how long I was going to be in town, but when they asked me if my girlfriend and I wanted to go to a nice local resort and help them shoot a commercial, I realized these were the time-share people Marina warned me about, so I politely smiled and declined and started backing away, despite the tide of maps and entreaties with which they tried to ply me. We would find these well-dressed people in Loreto's center as well, persistently trying to get us to talk to them, not accepting a polite smile and a no thank you. "Honeymooners, eh?" "What did we ever do to you?" (actual quotes) They hung on like a cold.
I did take advantage of them to get an additional map of the town center, with an indication of how to get to our hotel, to go with the hand drawn map the owner of the Hotel Posada Del Cortes had given us.
I don't speak Spanish, at least nothing beyond some basic phrases ("Donde esta el bano" worked perfectly, but when I asked a waiter for a check one time, he brought butter instead, so something went wrong there). You will understand my trepidation at having to rent a car by myself, without Marina there as a translator, and then driving into town all by myself. Marina had been in Mexico for a few days at a conference, and was coming into town via bus that same day, so she couldn't meet me at the airport.
As with many things I've fretted about in my life, this mountain became a molehill fairly quickly. The representative of the car rental agency spoke English very well, which is no surprise for a tourist industry. He called me "Amigo" so often, though, that I wondered if he calls everyone "Amigo" or just the tourists. The Jeep Liberty we had reserved was not available, apparently, but instead, they gave me a big white Chevy pickup truck. Me and pickup trucks mix as naturally as dogs and grey whales. Yes, I know, I'm from Montana, but I'm a bad Montanan: I've never hunted or skied, and I only fished a few times when I was 10.
The truck certainly felt as big as a grey whale. The highway was empty as I maneuvered out of the parking lot and turned north towards Loreto, passing cacti left and right--that was my "ah ha, Mexico!" moment, or at least one of them. I was a bit cautious, figuring out how the truck handled, and looking for a speed limit sign--my adherence to speed limits would drive Marina crazy, as apparently I was the only one in all of Mexico, including the Mexicans, who paid the speed limit signs any attention; but in my defense, there was a sign that read "Obedezcan los senales" (Obey the signs"), and I was particularly inclined not to speed on the Monday after we left Loreto, when we passed through a military checkpoint and passed several convoys of Mexican soldiers wearing black ski-masks.
Even though I was on high-alert as a driver, I did manage to savor the thought that I was driving a pickup truck down Highway 1 in Mexico, passing cacti and covering three kilometers almost devoid of other traffic. It felt epic, as if I were a combination of Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash. And I managed to cover the distance with no problem, and the hand-drawn map guided me unerringly to the hotel, and I pulled up in front of the hotel in the big white truck as sunset began, and just as Marina was walking up the street, so that pretty much made me a travel star, I think.
We settled in to the Hotel Posada Del Cortes, with a lovely balcony attached to our room, and a glorious rooftop terrace with a view across the city, taking in the tower of the mission, palm trees, a cell phone tower disguised as a palm tree, and the mountains of the Sierra de la Giganta, and from there we walked down the street to the waterfront, or the Malecon.
Looking at the water was soothing. The following day, Sunday, we would be taking a boat trip to one of the islands off-shore, part of a marine reserve, but tonight we just wandered to the water and then back along the Avenida Salvatierra, a pedestrian thoroughfare where children were playing and running. This reminded me of my trip to Mallorca, when children were playing soccer in a wide alleyway, with flagstones and rain. You don't see children playing in the streets like this in San Francisco. On Sunday Streets, yes, you will see families out walking and biking, but that's different. Even somewhere like the Sunset, a more residential district, the streets and sidewalks are quiet, devoid of kids.
Also, I saw the greatest bench ever.
We ate that night at a restaurant called the Singing Parakeet, but that's a subject for a food blog entry, to be posted in the near future. For now, I'll sign off. More to come tomorrow!
posted by Devin at 3:03 PM
1 Comments:
Devin.... I love your blog. I did not know you wrote although it does not surprise me..
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