Ruta
Uno, Baja’s Federal Highway Route 1, hugs its coastline most of the time, but
not always on the same coastline of the nation’s enormous peninsula. South of
Guerrero Negro and into Baja Sur (Southern Baja), it crosses to the east and
skirts the Sea of Cortez until flopping back west just before coming into Cabo
San Lucas.
Sweeping
west we saw some of the most arid country I’d ever come across. Even the cactus
seem to shrivel. If you happen to be looking on Baja from a satellite, it would
appear to be folded chocolate fudge, all dark swirls and humps and valleys; not
a green thing in sight. We wound our way through it in less than two hours
before bisecting a great mountain pass and then descending out of the
desiccated plateau to the azure Sea of Cortez below, windswept with
mountain/islands that seemed to erupt from the water, green to their caps.
After hours of seeing nothing but dust and grit, it was like coming into
Tolkien’s Valinor.
But
the view soon changed when we arrived at sea level and rattled into Santa
Rosalia, as ugly as a badger hole, rimmed by small warehouses, decrepit shacks
and truck stops along the main highway. We were hoping to find something to
eat, but a quick survey into the heart of the town revealed, as they say in
Mexico, nada, so we headed onto Mulegé, our next stop.
There
we pulled up to a gravel parking lot that split off a road that had taken us by
some spaghetti route deeper into town among white stucco buildings crammed
along its narrow streets. Across the road sat a deep inlet where modest but
brightly colored homes rimmed the water, their small wooden docks housing motor
or row boats that could take you deeper into the estuary in one direction or
out to sea in the other. It has the Hippie, laid-back vibe of the 1960s, a
throwback to the days of flowers in your hair, bell-bottom jeans and the scents
of Panama Red wafting in the air. The restaurant was an open shack with outdoor
tables that served beer, tacos, empanadas and enchiladas. Every person dining
at the place seemed to be American, and everyone seemed to be preoccupied with
food, beer, motorcycles and their races.
“Hola,
I am Juan Carlos,” says a big, bald man heaving up to our little metal table.
“The shrimp chile rellenos are spectacular!” He wears a Texas-sized grin and is
the picture of raw energy. No sleepy siestas for him.
“Juan
!” I say. “You must be the owner.”
“Oh,
no, “ he says. “I’m not that one. I’m just Juan. That’s THE Juan over there,”
and he jabs his thumb at the boarded sign that hangs behind him, the one that
reads: “Juan’s Racing Bar and Grill.”
He
grins. We laugh. He had the joke down pat.
“I’ll
be back with your beers.” He disappears into the shack that rings with the
sounds of another big man, the short order cook with a 5 o’clock shadow, his
massive hands waving his metal spatula around like a samurai as he serves up
sizzling grilled beef, chicken and shrimp.
Juan
speaks English as flawlessly as a Chicago anchorman though he was born in San
Quintin (recently visited— see Dispatch
XXIV) and grew up in Mulegé (pronounce Moo legh-hay with a guttural “gh.”)
“Lots of television,” he explains. “Lots of movies with subtitles. The chile relllenos!
They’re comin.”
We
ask if there is hotel around. “Right up the road, top of the hill,” says the
other Juan.
We
had seen that place while exploring the spaghetti route. “There’s no one home
there,” I say.
“Oh,
they’ll be back,” Bob probably just ran out for beer. “Check after you eat.”
We
do, but the hotel, which looked promising, is clearly cerrado (closed). We rope
our way our back, hoping to find a bed along the coastal road before its
unpredictable highway and the dark swallow us up.
We’ve
been told that along the Sea of Cortez, you’ll see some of the most beautiful
beaches in the world. Try Playa El Requesón, Playa de Balandra, Playa Santispac
and Playa El Coyote, all between Mulége and La Paz. The beaches are wide and
undeveloped. Sometimes we saw trucks or small RVs and tents right up on the
sand, their denizens as carefree and easy as the ocean air. No condos or hotels
here; just more of the 60’s-hanging-ten beach vibe. If we had any camping gear
it would have been tempting to just set up, build a fire and uncork a couple of
cold ones, but we are tentless and without food and therefore in need of
sturdier accommodations. And we were running low on time.
Soon
we found ourselves creeping, not speeding, along Route 1 because we were stuck
behind an 18-wheeler that was hauling tons of long, bouncing, iron rebar. From
the time we began our descent out of the desert, we could not seem to shake
this truck. Route 1’s maximum width is never more than two lanes. The only way
to pass is to find a slab of pavement long and straight enough to make the
passage non-lethal. But straight stretches are rare in Baja. We get to calling
the truck “Rebar Guy” and this is not a term of endearment. The behemoth is
slow, heavy and noisy, crashing its gears when heading up hill and blaaahhhting
with its Jake brake when heading down. Never once does this driver offer to
pull to the side to allow us or anyone else to pass. We had passed him before
Rosalia, but fell behind when looking for food there; later we passed him
again, but after lunch with Juan he passed us by. Each time we caught him, we again were forced
to risk death to circumnavigate his enormous haul, or risk running out of
daylight. This happened every time we stopped to take a picture or checked to
see if a hotel was open. Naturally the few hotels we found were all closed -
COVID has shut them down. So once again we returned to the highway to find
ourselves gazing at the backend of Rebar Guy’s reams of thudding iron bars. It
was maddening and darkness was coming.
Loreto
After
multiple Rebar Guy encounters we finally decided to forsake any efforts at
finding accommodations, leave the truck in the rearview mirror for good and
push onto Loretto, Baja’s next city. In
Spanish the word Loreto means “a destination at the end of a pilgrimage.” It
was certainly that after our encounters with Ruta 1 and Rebar Guy. Loreto might be our most favorite Baja city.
It's a small town, but not too small, embraceable, and the people are
enormously friendly. As we rolled off the highway and through its darkening
streets Cyn found a charming hotel called the Posada de las Flores Loreto, a
hotel in the classic Spanish colonial style perfectly located near the town
plaza and the beach.
Loreto
was founded by a Jesuit missionary named Juan Maria Salvatierra in 1697 when he
built a small mission there, and for that reason it became the first capital of
all the Californias, a region that in those days included Mexico and much what
became the United States as far north as San Francisco. The famous Franciscan
priest Junipero Serra used Loreto as his base when he began colonizing New
California - missions built in San Diego, Sacramento, Monterey, Santa Barbara
and San Francisco. You can find all of the historical proof displayed right
there in Loreto’s museum located next to Our Lady of Loreto mission. Many of the
documents are 300 years old.
The
next morning we explored our posada’s roof top pool festooned with wood and
iron wrought tables and bright white canvas umbrellas above a tan tile floor.
It gave us a perfect view of the town’s small but vibrant plaza with its shops
and restaurants and bakeries. People scurried back and forth below, while children
laughed and played, and quiet clusters of tourists wandered the small stores or
settled down for a meal among the patioed eateries. The plaza has everything
you can want by day: coffee shops, local retail stores, the required steepled
church (Our Lady of Loreto), and at night excellent restaurants and bars and
plenty of open pedestrian walkways.
While
exploring the town we met Mike from
Alaska who learned of our travels and told us we must take the Oresund train
between Sweden and Copenhagen that crosses over a great bridge and then dives
for miles through a tunnel below water. We noted that because we knew we’d be
heading that way after exploring South America and Antarctica (trace the route
on our PolarSteps map). The next morning at breakfast we met Bob,
originally from Newfoundland
(also see dispatches IX
and X),
and his wife Stasia at breakfast. They’ve often visited Loreto to escape
Victoria’s Canadian winters. “When you
make it to Victoria (also on our itinerary),” they told us, “be sure to take
the Blackball Express ferry from Port
Angeles. Bob, who loves to motorcycle also recommended I read a book that was
one of his favorites: Jupiter’s Travels. Later I did read it on my way by ship
through the Panama Canal and enjoyed it so much I chose it as my favorite
travel book. (You can read summaries of my personal current list of the world’s
ten best travel books here.)
In
the evenings, we took long walks along the town’s malecón (boardwalk). It was
pristine, calming and absolutely safe. The perfect weather, verdant mountains
and riotous sunsets didn’t hurt either. It’s a sweet little gem, Loreto, known
in Mexico as a Pueblo Magico. If you’re in the neighborhood, you’ll love this
town. Nevertheless, after three evenings, it was time to push on toward the
bottom of the peninsula and La Paz.
La
Paz means peace in Spanish, but the vile story behind the first Spanish
conquistadors to find the bay was anything but peaceful. In 1533 Hernán Cortés sent two ships under the
command of Diego de Becerra to explore the South Pacific and find two other
Spanish ships that had been lost the previous year. Becerra’s ship, the Concepción, was separated
from its sister but continued its explorations. That’s when things got
ugly. Fortún Ximénez was the Concepión’s
navigator and second in command, and he was not happy with the decisions
Becerra was making. He mutineed and murdered Becerra in his sleep. And he had
all of Becerra’s crewmen murdered too. From there Ximénez and his men wandered
until they found what they believed to be the Island of California, a mythical
place written about in the popular Spanish romance novel Las Sergas de
Esplandián. The fictional California was
supposedly a terrestrial paradise populated only by dark-skinned women. When
the mutineers landed, they found scantily clad natives who spoke a language
entirely unknown to them from the Mexican highlands. Rather than learning from
them, they raped the women and plundered the bay for black pearl oysters the
locals sometimes harvested. In retaliation the natives killed Ximénez and
several of his men.
La
Paz is not the mythical island that the conquistadors were looking for, but its
bay remains as beautiful as it was the day Ximénez and his men came to plunder
it 500 years ago. With a population of over 200,000 today it is a larger
version of Loreto (10 times the population).
But like Loreto, it has a long and lovely malecón, even if it is more
active than its sister city. Dark-haired
children and their parents and lovers of every age saunter in uneven lines
between sculptures and along the sun-kissed beach as roller skaters weave in
and out. Between the malecón and the sea
lay a broad beach filled with volleyballers, and bathers lounging beneath small
umbrellas of straw. Everything is spotless. In the evening we watched hundreds
of cars cruise along the beach’s main drag with children leaning out of the
windows gazing beyond the water as the sun set. I was not sure what I expected
to see in La Paz or Loreto, but it wasn’t this. Unlike San Quintin or Santa
Rosalia or even Mulegé, they were neither run down trash strewn towns nor high
end Cancún style resorts. They were simply pleasant beach towns filled mostly
with local families enjoying the fine winter weather and spectacular
views.
We had
found La Paz after driving four hours of winding highway that rises up and down
the peninsula, wheeling us between the sea and the Sierra La Gigantica. By
afternoon we had arrived at a tiny B&B with a small enclosed swimming pool
called Casa Juarez that Cyndy had found near the corners of Benito Juárez and
Revolution 1910 streets - eight snug, but well-appointed rooms. (The streets
are named for the bloody revolution that lasted ten years in Mexico and shaped
the modern nation. Benito Juarez was a liberal politician who served as
Mexico’s 26th president from 1858 to 1872.)
A
quiet beach on a calm day after sunset. The sky is orange and beige. Some palms
are scattered in the background and the beach on the left is lapped by gentle
waves.
Casa
Juarez was just a few blocks from the La Paz wharf, owned and operated by
Silvana and Jacopo, both Italian. Silvana ran the place, an attractive
middle-aged woman, always busy, her long dark hair looking a bit tussled as she
ran around the compound attending to clients, checking email, preparing coffee
like an expert barista, one cup at a time.
Her husband Jacopo, a big jolly man, had built the hotel and prepared
all the food all while belting out his favorite Italian operas. Together they
had created a little oasis in the middle of the city; gated (but don’t worry
it’s safe), a small, lovely pool, ringed with palm trees and bamboo and grass
hut awnings with snug patios and porches for each of the rooms. They had
designed the place and then built it from the ground up over 10 years earlier.
Every corner was square and plum which is not always the case in Mexican
buildings. Silvana had found the property when she was vacationing in La Paz
and decided she wanted to create a B&B, and so they did.
She
loved the work but they had recently put the B&B up for sale – available
for $1.3 million if you're interested. If it sells she told us, that was fine
and then they would travel. If not she was also perfectly content continuing to
run it. Where would they go when they did travel, I asked? Mexico, Silvana
said, maybe Japan and China. Europe she already knew. She did love Sicily and
Sardinia. Maybe South America. She was less sure of Asia and Africa. We said we
would do our best to let her know what we found.
Each
morning we sat down to breakfast and got the full board of Jacopo cooking. The
first day I had a single poached egg, topped on a tiny tortilla, wrapped around
one strip of bacon with just a touch of tangy cheese at the base. I took the
tortilla, dipped it in the egg until it was all gone and then devoured the
remainder. You’d think this was enough
with papaya and pineapple, watermelon and cantaloupe chunks available along
with yogurt and toast and a variety of cereals, but it wasn't. After you ate
all of that, Jacopo, wearing a broad, proud grin would then drop, without
asking, three tiny sandwiches each in front of us. He did this every morning
for every customer after first going to the counter he had created, quaffing a
shot of espresso and singing out in a basso profundo, “Aaahhh!” This sometimes
caused their yellow Labrador to rouse himself with a bark, but then he’d
swiftly settle back to sleep.
People
from all over the world seemed to find Casa Juarez — there was the young couple
Ian and Ana, staying with us; a middle-aged French couple of unknown origin;
another couple who spoke German (or maybe it was Dutch) and liked to lounge by
the pool; and four Canadians. I learned from Silvana that she spoke four
languages with varying degrees of command. Italian was her native language,
Spanish came easy, then English and finally French. “I never could master
Portuguese,” she said. “Or Sardinian for that matter - totally different,
completely unlike Italian! I don't know where it comes from!" In between
her duties Silvana advised we all must keep our brains active. “Or you’ll lose
them!” I figured that mastering four languages probably put her brain in a good
spot.
We
enjoyed our time in La Paz. Got some work done (solid internet), strolled the
malecón, witnessed the sun setting over the Sea of Cortez and watched the
endless parade of shining sedans, SUVs and convertibles rumble by. On our last
evening, heading back to our room we met Ian and Ana helping themselves to
glasses of wine by the small pool. Both, we quickly learned were serious
travelers. They worked on cruise ships,
Ian as a cook. Anna had traveled the Trans-Siberian Railway and they were now
headed to the Mexican mainland to take the El Chepe Express, considered one of
the most spectacular trains in the world. I had never heard of it, but gathered
all the information I could from them before saying goodnight. Back at the room
I told Cyndy all about the El Chepe, and she immediately said, "We have to
try that!"
"Absolutely!"
I said. I’d begin looking into it as soon as we got to Cabo San Lucas and
completed our one thousand mile Baja run the next day. And the following
morning that’s what we did.
But
that’s another story. See you somewhere soon. In the meantime, crack on!
Resource:
https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/driving-mexicos-baja-1000-part-two
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