Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid A Classic Movie Revisited

 Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was a breakout hit when it was released in 1969.  Over a half century later, it remains an enduring, beloved revisionist western.

There are a long list of reasons underlying its success, starting with the all-star teaming of Paul Newman and newcomer Robert Redford whose career was about to skyrocket.  And let’s not forget the casting of Katherine Ross who had appeared as Dustin Hoffman’s love interest in The Graduate (1967).  The Oscar-winning screenplay was written by William Goldman, who collected his second Oscar a few years later for All the President’s Men (1976).  It was directed by George Roy Hill, Oscar winning director of The Sting (1973).  Conrad Hall won an Oscar for his work on Burch Cassidy.

Suffice it to say that there was a ton of talent in front of the lens and behind it.

But that doesn’t guarantee a successful movie or a movie that will stand the test of time.

As with all the great Hollywood films, there is some degree of movie magic that enters in.

It was a movie of the times.  It was part of a curious chapter of Hollywood history in which protagonists often died at the end of the movie, as they famously did in Easy Rider, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? or The Wild Bunch, all released in 1969.

You could argue that Hollywood reflected the pessimism surrounding the Vietnam War in the late Sixties.

An interesting distinction regarding Butch Cassidy is that the audience was spared witnessing the brutality of the hero’s demise thanks to the brilliant decision to freeze frame Butch and Sundance as they run out into the courtyard, guns blazing, just before time stops and we hear the sound of the dozens of rifles that gruesomely gun them down.

It was a far cry from the slow motion “Ballet of Death” blood bath that Sam Peckinpah served up at the end of The Wild Bunch.

Aside from the famous ending, Butch Cassidy had much to offer.  It was essentially a comedy, a buddy flick about two likeable bank robbers, intent on robbing banks and trains and not killing anyone. 

They were good guys who were admittedly bad guys, but entirely forgivable due to their chemistry, charm and abundant good looks.  The pairing of Newman and Redford was a stroke of pure genius that perhaps remains unequaled to this day.  It was perfection.

Butch Cassidy certainly took some risks.  It was based on a true story that had a tragic ending.  You knew it wouldn’t end well.  And yet, much of it was played for lightheartedness and laughs.

I’m thinking of the famous bicycle scene played to the tune of Burt Bacharach’s “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on my Head” (sung by B.J. Thomas).  It’s a quirky sequence that feels like it doesn’t belong in the movie, yet it works despite the strong resistance from studio management at the time. 

It won an Oscar for Best Original Song and the movie won another Oscar for Best Music, making a total of four Academy Awards for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

The song forever evokes the sequence of Paul Newman riding Katherine Ross on the handlebars of a vintage bicycle on a sunlit morning—a romantic little romp that ends with the bicycle crashing through a fence and unexpectedly landing in a pen of a snorting bull.  It’s the mix of romance and comedy that defines Butch Cassidy.

One of the biggest comedic scenes in the movie comes when Butch and Sundance are chased to the edge of a cliff and realize that they will have to jump to save their lives.  When Sundance hesitates, Butch discovers that Sundance can’t swim, prompting the now famous line, “Are you crazy? The fall will probably kill ya!”

The scene of the legendary jump is one of Hollywood’s greatest stunt sequences in which two stunt men jump from an elevated tower into a tank of water.  The scene is made to appear real with the use of a “glass shot” in which the cliff was painted on a pane of glass placed in front of the camera, obscuring the tower and tank of water, making it appear that Butch and Sundance were jumping off a cliff and into the river below.

The dramatic element of Butch Cassidy is the relentless pursuit of the unstoppable posse intent to bringing our heroes to justice.  They are the dark force always looming in the distance, despite the frolicking and fun.  That sense of inescapable gloom and doom might have been another reason that Butch Cassidy resonated with Vietnam era audiences.

Eventually, Butch and Sundance concoct a plan to escape to freedom by fleeing to Bolivia.

It is where they meet their fate, depicted in the famous standoff and shootout in the final reel of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. 

It’s one of the truly great movie endings.  One that you never, ever forget.

In reality, there is still much debate as to whether Butch and Sundance really bit the bullet as the film suggests or whether one or both of them managed to escape.  The truth may forever remain a mystery.

In the meantime, the movie version and the Hollywood ending will continue to entertain audiences with its own charming telling of the tale.

55 years later, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid still entertains audiences -- a Vietnam-era revisionist western for the ages, starring perhaps the best talent paring of all time.

 

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/butch-cassidy-and-the-sundance-kid-movie-review

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The Train to Marrakesh to Casablanca and then Rabat

 

The Marrakesh train station is broad, clean and organized. Cyn and I towed our baggage toward some passenger seats, tickets in hand awaiting the announcement of our train north to Casablanca, connecting to Rabat. Outside we could see the long nose of a high speed train gazing back at us. As we approached I noticed a slim, pretty woman, perhaps 35; sharp nose, dark eyes and perfect olive skin, sitting quietly on a string of chairs. She wore a black hijab, and I was certain she was Moroccan when she turned and out of her mouth came an Irish brogue that would have shamed a Dublin bartender.

 “Hello,” she said, “do yah need me tah move?” I nearly dropped my day pack.

Once we settled into seats next to her, I said I had to ask where that Irish lilt came from. Very prim, hands crossed on her lap, she explained. Her name was Zayneb. “But most people call me Z.”

Z was part Irish and part Libyan; a mother and a poetess. Both work and marriage meant bouncing between Ireland and Morocco, which explained why she was awaiting the same train we were. But what about the brogue?

It started with her Libyan father, she said, Mohammed, who was sitting in a bar in Ireland several decades ago talking with a group of Irishmen curious about Islam. Joanna, a coleen, all of 17 at the time, overheard the conversation and decided to share a few thoughts with the men along the lines that muslim women were enslaved and without rights and should liberate themselves from the tyranny of muslim men.  Mohammed begged to disagree and asked if she would like to meet some of the muslim women he knew in Ireland and see how they felt about these things. She agreed and spent quite a bit of time listening to their points of view. In time she liked what she heard and came back for more. Joanna was Irish, but not particularly happy with the Catholic faith; too many vague answers to her 17-year-old questions. Islam, on the other hand, felt more concrete. Six months more of these explorations with the women who became her friends and the little Irish girl from Dublin converted to Islam.

Around the same time, while at the mosque in Dublin, Joanna ran into Mohammed again. He was stunned at her turnaround (who wouldn’t be?). More conversations ensued, and it wasn’t long before they married.

“Ever since they have been inseparble.” Joanna and Mohammed brought 14 children into the world, one of them was Zayneb … “all while my mother ran an international development company with holdings as far away as Turkey.” 

“She was quite a woman,” I offered.

Z nodded, dropped her eyes. But now, she explained, her mother and father had been separated, and so were the other 13 children, at least from their mother. Two months ago Joanna fell while cleaning gutters at her house and broke her wrist. The x-ray of her arm led to revelations that there tumors in her liver and heart.  Inoperable, terminal cancer, and not a thing to be done about it. The family never told Joanna about the disease.

“She was gone in a couple of weeks.”

Cyn and I told her how saddened we were. Zayneb smiled a sad smile. She nodded. I had so many questions, but the announcement told us it was time to board. We shook hands and promised to stay in touch and then Z was up, adjusting her hajib and walking regally, roller suitcase in hand, to a coach somewhere other than ours. What a fine woman, I thought.

The Train to Casablanca and the Roots of Hatred

The ONCF train we boarded was a Harry Potter style affair, very British, except without the mahogany wood interiors. Multiple compartments, with sliding glass doors that opened to two long benches on each side. Room enough for six.  The six of us sat elbow to elbow, bags crammed in the compartments above our heads, or wherever we could fit them on our feet.

We were a quiet crowd as the train rattled out of the big station north toward Morocco’s largest city, the one famous for Rick’s Café Américain and the celebrated (if inaccurate) phrase, “Play it again, Sam.” Seated among us was a young man, slim, a black headset clapped over his equally black hair, phone in hand, smiling at whatever he was looking at on the phone. His mother sat beside him, wearing a turquoise caftan, gripping her leather purse for dear life. Her COVID mask was as firmly fastened to her ears as her ears to her head. She is silent. Also in the compartment is a strong, stocky black man around 40, and next to him a woman with shortish brown hair tinged with blonde highlights directly across from me, around the same age. 

The train accelerated past apartments seven stories high, and swinging cranes busy stacking new apartments like Legos. Next came the suburbs and then beyond mud huts trimmed with plastic roofs sitting among flat, scrub, and dry rocky land the color of Caucasian skin. I watched a donkey lying on his back rubbing the dirt like a dog with an itch. Here and there, thirsty trees sprouted from the dust. Beyond lay low mountains. Morocco’s summers are scorching, but luckily the train’s air conditioning was good enough to keep the sweat at bay. Once the train found the flat arid land, it made a kind of skating sound as it sped north into the scrub.

In the corridor outside, I watched a young man in an orange and black uniform pushing a cart of chips, drinks, and European-style snacks past our compartment. I thought again of Harry Potter and wondered if he had any Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, Chocolate Frogs, or Jelly Slugs handy. But then I was pretty sure this train wasn’t headed to Hogwarts.

All of us in the enclosed room tried valiantly to shoo a pesky fly out of the cabin. It was interesting.  No one wanted to kill it, just send it elsewhere. I took this as a good omen. The stout man directly across from us sat in tan shorts, a red check shirt, black baseball cap beneath a handsome ebony face. His arms were thick and so was his beard, striped with gray at the chin. The woman with the brown hair, glasses perched on her perfectly upturned nose, often spoke in English to the man who turned out to be her husband. Her accent was Dutch or German, his … I wasn’t quite sure … British?

It was the obstinate fly that got us all talking. We had to laugh at six humans who couldn’t outfox a single bug. The woman across from us was named Corinna and her husband was named Mutawakilu Samori, from Ghana. I loved the sound of his name, but he said, “Just call me Muta.” 

Corinna has been working with Lufthansa since she graduated college — managing employment and human relations for the big company’s far-flung  North African operations. She grew up in central Germany and loved the trips her family would take to Poland and Hungary. She won a masters degree in geology, but quickly found she made a better living at Lufthansa. She and Muta met at a disco 20 years ago, each was just out for the evening, but while they were talking they found they were both about to travel to Ghana. So they decided to make the flight together, and fell in love.

All sorts of discussions then ensued and soon even the young man with the headphones joined in. His name was Tariffi and he couldn’t have been much more than 25-years-old. Soon we were all talking politics, Facebook and its algorithms, the importance of face-to-face encounters vs. social media and how conversations like this one knock down echo chambers and make it difficult to demonize others. Here we were, six people from five countries, openly exploring our thinking and no one once yelled at the other, or called them names (like a certain former American president routinely did). This then drifted into chats about the importance travel and other countries. Tariffi mentioned the ongoing border problems between southern and northern Morocco, not to mention Algeria, just to the East. I had to admit I didn’t know much about these disputes, but there is history among the people of the south. This part of the world was once known as Spanish Sahara and goes back to the end of 1975 after Spain relinquished control of the region.  Morocco and Mauritania divided the territory between themselves, but the pro-independence Polisario Front, backed by Algeria, proclaimed a Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic and launched a military struggle against what it viewed as two occupying powers. Mauritania withdrew from its part of the territory in 1979 after a series of military defeats at the hands of the Polisario, leaving it to Morocco to deal with the conflict. Meanwhile Rabat (Morocco’s governmental seat) consolidated control over most of the south. The Polisario still wants to be recognized as the world’s 196th nation.

This seemed to lead to views that conflicts like these can be resolved IF we aren’t so bent on hating people we don’t really know. “So many people don't think! Because it's hard to think for yourself,” said Musta, a sentiment that Cyndy and I heartily agreed with. “And people don't think they make mistakes, but they make them again and again.”

“It’s okay to make mistakes, “ I added. “But not repeat them. I remembered Buckminster Fuller writing somewhere that all of civilization was nothing more than the sum total of its mistakes. But we only grow if we learn from those mistakes. So often we don't.”

“People hate others without really knowing who they are, or where they come from,” said Corinna. “Without really seeing what we have in common, but only assuming that we are enemies.” She told the story of how South Africans would say when she traveled, “‘You're going to Nigeria? You'll die!’ And Nigerian would say, ‘South Africa? They will kill you.’” Yet, she said, here she was, still alive. “People are mostly good,” she said. 

We even touched on women’s rights. Corinna said that she’s always loved the different phrases cultures come up with. I thought of the Navajo shaman we had met in Monument Valley. “How much weight can you carry.” In South Africa, they say, “a strong woman can carry a lot of water.”

“I love that,” said Corinna. I knew that was true. Cyndy was proof every day, and so were each of my three daughters, and so many more women I’ve met.

With that, the train began to slow and we came to the Casablanca Station, just long enough to thank Corinna, Muta and Tarrifi (and his very quiet mother who didn’t understand a word of our conversation) and wish them well on their safari (Swahili for ‘journey’). We then waved in the general direction of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, and caught the next train to Rabat where more adventures awaited.

Rabat - Exploring A Moroccan Treasure

After a quiet ride of an hours or so, we  walked out of the Rabat train station completely clueless. My Arabic consisted of phrases like Salaam, Inshallah and Yella in an entirely Arabic speaking nation, and we had no more idea where we would be laying our heads this night than a blind man plopped in a Moroccan medina. Our cell service was non-existent, but I had preloaded a map of our route to the riad on my iPhone and it told us we were about 12 minutes away.  All we had to do was get a taxi to the right hotel.

Outside the station a cluster of taxi drivers clambered up to us ready to take us anywhere we wanted to go. A small boned driver with a black mustache elbowed his way to us. “Yella, yella!” He said. Let’s go!

“How much,” I asked, rubbing my thumb and forefinger in the universal signal of cash.

He spoke in rapid Arabic but I thought I caught the word for eight, and I had also roughly calculated that the trip would cost about 80 dirham. So I figured this was our man. That was my first mistake.

We loaded our bags into the small, battered taxi and crammed ourselves in the back. I noticed his meter wasn't running, but I figured we had settled on the price so off we went. Through some internet magic, even without cell service, we we were able to map our location on our phone, and the taxi seem to be heading in the right direction. Then suddenly it wasn't. Soon we were well past 12 minutes, pushing 20. I knew our riad was in the ancient section of town, the sorts of areas we always stayed in.  But as we looked around there wasn’t a hotel or riad to be found. We were in a nice residential area, nowhere near a medina. Cyndy and I were not feeling confident.

Finally, the taxi driver looked around then stopped the car. He pointed his finger outside. “Here,” he said.

He looked oblivious. I jabbed again at the phone with the name of the riad. "Riad Kalaa,” I said, maybe a little too loudly.

The mustached driver got out of the car and wandered around a bit. He seemed to agree that there were no hotels and got back into the car.  He was clearly lost, but I saw he had another idea. He put the taxi back in gear and headed off we knew not where.

Clearly we’re in a pickle. Our lack of Arabic isn’t helping. At one point the driver stopped, and invited a woman on the street who also apparently needed a taxi. WTF was this? Did he think she could help? Was he looking to make more money because he was losing money on all our fare? Five minutes later, he stopped the car and she got out. I punch the phone some more and called out the name of the riad. By now I’m fuming and he was getting rattled. He was now desperate, driving nowhere in particular. He pulled his ball cap off and wiped his shiny head with his sleeve. I felt badly for him. Here he was thinking he had a nice ripe fare from some American tourists and now he was thoroughly lost, stuck with an angry white man jabbering in a unknown language whose decibel levels seem to be rising every block. But we had now been driving for 45 minutes!

At last, the taxi driver stopped at a gate outside of the big building and walks out toward a man in a uniform. Many questions. The uniform points down the road and indicates a few turns. He seems to know his stuff.  Back to the taxi. Three minutes later we are standing in front of a very ritzy hotel. The taxi driver motions for help and gets out. I get out too. I show a man who works outside the big hotel the address of our riad. He nods. He turns to the driver and explains where the location is. The taxi driver shakes his head no. Yes, says the man at the hotel. Again, the taxi driver begs to differ. He’s defensive now. The hotel man waves his arms vigorously to clarify in no uncertain terms that he's wrong and I hear the word “ancienes,” the French for old. Again, he says it. A lightbulb goes off at last in the taxi driver’s head. He lowers his head in submission. Maybe he had the right address, but he is in the new part of town, not the old sector. 

“Okay, I say to the ritzy hotel man, does he know where to go, really?”

He then pulls the taxi driver over and speaks rapidly. He turns to me.

“Yes, he knows.”

I get back in the car, and the taxi driver puts the old car in gear.

“Does he know?” Asks Cyn. This is now the universal question.

“I think so,” I say. But who could say. This might be one of the world’s great riddles, like the mystery of the Holy Trinity or the location of Atlantis! To be extra certain, Cyn turns on her cell phone service. It’s expensive in Morocco and mine was out, but we figure it’d be worth it if we could find our beds before midnight. She dials the riad. The man on the phone says he speaks no English, but wait… Silence. Then a man gets on the phone and asks in English how he can help. Once again, Cyndy to the rescue. I explain our predicament and then put the phone in the taxi driver’s ear. The two men talk. Then back on the phone … OK. The man at the riad promises to meet us outside when the car arrives - 10 minutes. Ten minutes later he does. We’ve been driving almost an hour. At last we haul out our bags. The taxi driver looks like I put a knife in him. I pull the last bag out of our car and give him 50 dirham — about five dollars. He is absolutely elated, and hops into his car as fast as a mongoose, thrilled, I am sure to be rid of the Americans he had so assiduously pursued 60 minutes earlier. That’ll teach him.

Riad Kalaa

The pleasant gentleman who had been on the phone, guided us through the city’s old medina, by now a familiar site. Compared to Fez and Marrakesh, though, the cobblestoned alleys were peaceful except for a couple of children walking by, talking in whispers. Five minutes later our host escorted us into Riad Kalaa where we met Zachariah, Alexii and Rayna, and were given a key for a room right off the open air courtyard common to all riads. It was two stories with steep steps inside that lead to a large queen bed and a spacious bathroom. Perfect!

Soon we were walking the building’s many floors where we hiked up to the open-air roof garden to see the courtyard beneath. The sun was setting and a cool breeze drifted off the Atlantic. I took some pictures and then we returned to the courtyard for another spectacular tagine dinner. Fish, this time, because we were so near the sea.

 

Afterwards, sleep came fast. After all, we had spent three weeks cramming a lot of Morocco into our noggins and we required rest!

We lost much of the day to work the next day — you know, the quotidian business of paying bills, answering emails, preparing for our return across the Straits of Gibraltar and into Europe and Spain where there would be no guides, no tours, no inside information. We lounged on our bed, ate at the riad and had some clothes washed. I booked a Hammam, an islamic kind of bath cum massage because it’s what I felt should be done in an Arabic country.  (More on that in a separate dispatch. It was quite an experience!)  But by 7:30 PM, we were ready to get outside. We donned our day packs and wandered along the same quiet medina that brought us to Riad Kalaa. Soon we emerged into the broad street where the taxi driver had dropped us the afternoon before. Below us lay a broad harbor and inlet, a kind of small lake that led out to the Atlantic ocean. The atmosphere was festive but not raucous. The marina reminded me of the melancon in Loreto, Baja Sur, Mexico, joyful, filled with children, parents and young people.

We saw lots of children wearing t-shirts and shorts on scooters, the old fashion kind, nothing battery operated. They swung in great arcs among their mothers and fathers, giggling, waving. A dark-haired boy of seven, with eyes black as marbles, ran by at top speed, wand in hand, with his younger sister trying to keep up. His shirt read “Today Is My Day.” By the look on his face, it looked like it was.  Children everywhere scooted along the cement pavement in colorful, if battered, little plastic cars. These were battery operated. One looked like a Model T, another like a fairy princess carriage or a dump truck. They wove in and out as music crackled and blared out of a speaker the size of a gallon jug. It had seen better days. It's a small world after all, and If you're happy, and you know it, clap your hands rose into the air mingling with Moroccan drums and flutes and symbols being played by local street musicians. A young girl stood with virtual reality googles clamped over her burkha, gazing into another, virtual world. Everywhere, I thought, American culture influences the world.

We meandered along the dish-like cove toward the Atlantic. Small restaurants clustered on our side of the dock. French, Italian and Spanish cuisines were on the menus along with pre-made kiosks with families lined up to buy ice cream, teas or cakes.

On the other side of the inlet lay a broad beach where people languidly soaked up the last rays of summer sun.  In the channel, little blue wooden boats are strung out all along the docks. As many as 10 men members of a family pile in and its captain, oars in hand, hauls away toward the sea where he will shortly circle back and re-deposit his cargo to pick up another group. It’s a kind of working man’s gondola. They seemed to have no particular place to go, but they are having a good time doing it. Back and forth they plied the still waters, the sounds of laughter echoing around the wharf.

The people of Rabat seemed quite content.

After awhile, twilight set in and we walked back toward the end of the inlet, opposite the sea. Just beyond the setting sun, lay the gargantuan battlements of yet another old, but renovated, Portuguese fort. Its big stone jaw jutted out like the ones we had seen outside of Tangier and Tarifa. Scores of local tourists strung themselves in ant-like lines walking its breastwork, unaware of the battles fought there hundreds of years ago.

We swung back into the medina and found our riad. There would be more to see the next day — a huge jewish cemetery, clustered with hundred upon hundreds of monuments and tombstones, an odd site in a muslim country. A fisherman standing on gargantuan rocks, his long pole extended as the Atlantic crashed around him. Local families on a broad sandy beach wading into the waves, with a Moroccan flag whipping in the wind. And back at our riad, Chip’s exciting hammam experience. (Look for a separate article on that! Just what the doctor ordered after marinating in this remarkable land.)

This is Dispatch XXXIV in a series about a Vagabond’s Adventures - journalist and National Geographic Explorer Chip Walter and his wife Cyndy’s effort to capture their experience exploring all seven continents, all seven seas and 100+ countries, never traveling by jet.

If you’ve enjoyed this dispatch, please take a look at Chip’s other adventures (and misadventures) … and don’t forget to check the Vagabond Journal  and our Travel Recommendations to help you plan YOUR next adventure.

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Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/train-to-rabat-visiting-morrocos-hidden-gem

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From Cairo’s Bustling Streets to Alexandria’s Tranquil Shores: An Egyptian Journey

 

If you’re ever brave enough to drive in Cairo, Egypt, you'll need to do it like schools of fish do — fluidly, dangerously close to other cars, trucks, vans, motorcycles, busses and Vespas; on the shoulder of the road when possible, making certain to ignore the signals and lines that have been laid out by the Egyptian government whenever possible. Failing to do this is to fail to be a proper Egyptian driver, and Youssef, our driver, was a proper Egyptian who could fish with the best of them.

He threaded his Toyota through the mayhem of Cairo’s streets, boulevards and highways, never stopping, because stopping is a cardinal sin. We circled immense roundabouts, skirted scores of every kind travel conveyance known to man or woman — scooters, tuc-tucs, leviathan tour buses, great clusters of microbuses the size of Volkswagen vans, every one of them jammed to the teeth with humans, so crammed that you couldn’t put a piece of paper between the people inside. Yet they seemed as comfortable and calm as a litter of sleeping puppies.

The beeping and honking that emits from the automobiles of Cairo never ends. It makes the horns of Manhattan feel like a solitary walk through an English meadow.  In the Egyptian driving world beeping is not a sign of anger. It is a language, a code. Each sound carries its own subtle meaning and all drivers understand the lingo. There are beeps that say, “I’m here!” Beeps that mean move along, or get out of my way, or careful, or stop or coming through. There are signals of frustration and every so often outright anger, but that is rare. Everything is somehow understood. I never witnessed an accident, although everything I saw on wheels was as battered and crumbled as a tin can in an alley. Apparently when there is an accident most people just move on unless serious damage has been done because most drivers don’t have insurance.  All of this noise, I realized, serves the same purpose stop lights and stop signs and the lines on roads and boulevards serve, which was why they were all ignored.

The ride from Cairo to Alexandria captures some of the sights and sounds common in Egyptian traffic.

Good thing, I thought, I was not driving. it would have been a merry game of bumper cars and there wouldn’t have been a driver safe from the chaos. No, it was best to leave the whole insane business in the hands of Youssef, and sure enough 30 minutes after we departed our hotel we broke out of the city unscathed onto broad ribbons of asphalt thereto to gape at the three Great Pyramids of Giza looking as if they had been dropped like giant blocks against the dense, sand-colored high-rise apartments that have erupted on the other side of the Nile. How two things created 4600 years apart could be so physically near to one other, but so separated by time dropped my jaw. We would visit them later, but for now, as the broad highway took us North toward the Mediterranean, they quickly disappeared in the rearview mirror.

Arriving in Cairo: Airports, Customs & First Impressions

We were on our way to Alexandria by car right now, but that hadn’t been our original plan. The day before, we arrived at Cairo International Airport. Cyn and I rarely travel by air, but we were forced to this time, from Athens to Cairo, because the ferry we thought we would take from Crete was shut down by the COVID epidemic. Navigating the customs process in Cairo was easier than expected — thanks to a man named Osama.

A woman in white blouse and black skirt frowns at the camera while surrounded by a large crowd all lined up waiting and carrying bags.

So in we came the way most outsiders do, through the crowded airport to gather our bags and bustle to customs.

The moment we entered the customs area, we found a man, or he found us, wearing a lanyard hung on his chest that assured us he worked for the Egyptian government. He was all charm and cheer with a thin head of hair, mustache and perfect teeth.

“Of course, of course,” says the man. “You need to get to a hotel. Let me help you with that, but here, here …” and in a heartbeat he had us at the counter exchanging money while he stood obediently nearby. Once we had safely stowed our cash, the man said, “Now we shall get you through customs.” He walked to the booth where custom agents stood. We saw him nod at one of them and got in a very short line.

“What is your name,“ asked Cyndy. The man beamed. “Osama, as in Ben Laden,” he grinned, and inclined his head, … “but no relation.”

While waiting in the customs line, he asked about our plans in Egypt. We mentioned we planned to visit Alexandria four days and then return to Cairo to board a ship up the Nile.

“Very nice. Very nice,” said Osama. Then he pulled out his phone and there was a rapid discussion in Arabic. I was trying to figure out what this man’s angle was. It’s not that I don’t trust most members of the human race, but when someone is this nice, and you don’t personally know them, there’s usually some quid pro quo in the cards. Yet he wasn’t asking for money or anything else for that matter.

Osama pocketed his phone and said with great pride. “I have arranged a car for you. It is a perfectly reasonable price.”

What was the price I asked?

“Only $20 American.”

That was high, I thought, but based on how far away we were and knowing we would be dealing with the kind of traffic 18 million people generates, it wasn’t worth debating.

“Thank you,” I said. “How do we find the car?”

Osama almost leapt with joy. “Here is my card.” He scribbled a name on it and handed it to me. “This is Youssef. He will be waiting for you outside and will take you to your hotel.” Then he added, “He will also drive you to Alexandria tomorrow, if you like. $80 American. The same cost as a train, but the ride will be so much better.”

I wasn’t sure of that but we hadn’t yet arranged train tickets and who knew what it would take to find the ticketing booths at the Ramses Rail Station. I had never been to Cairo, and suspected getting to the train depot and arranging ticketing there would probably be bedlam … on steroids. (I had already discovered you can’t effectively buy tickets in Egypt online). I said we’d look into it, but secretly thought it might be a different way to travel through Egypt. We could then take the train back from Alexandria and board the ship up the Nile in Cairo.

Soon we cleared customs and walked outside. Youssef appeared as if out of nowhere. It was a warm day and we were quickly surrounded. Youssef, however, a small man with buzz-cut hair, smoothly guided us through the crowd. He was a serious young man. None of the bluff and good humor of Osama. Once in the car, watching Youssef battle the traffic, it finally came to me how all of Osama’s good humor and personalized offers of help paid off for him. Being the clever man he was, he could never chance losing his government job by asking for cash directly. Instead he would have minions like Youssef available. He would shower us with kindness and help to build a relationship and then arrange to provide a driver, a driver who could take newbies like us all over the country, to every museum, every restaurant or city we wanted. Youssef would (I guessed) be supplied a car, a job with tips and maybe a cut of the car payment (but probably not). We would get our ride at a high, but not outrageous rate and might become longer term customers. Everybody wins, but mostly Osama because he would take the lion’s share of the payments. I couldn’t be absolutely sure this was the deal, but if it was, it was damned clever.

Once in the courtyard of the hotel, Youssef asked when he should pick us up for our drive to Alexandria in the morning. Eleven AM I suggested. “Yes. I will be there!”

Our road trip from Cairo to Alexandria began the next morning when Youssef pulled up on time, ready to battle the traffic once more. he was soon doing his best imitation of schooled fish. Traveling by car in Egypt offered a very different perspective than taking the train.

An immense bridge swept us east across the great river and then bent us north. Once beyond the pyramids we watched acres of high-rises, cranes and the apartment buildings pass us by, all in various states of construction.

After nearly an hour, we could still see the evidence of new development on the far edges of the city. Cairo seemed to be outgrowing itself, like an adolescent outgrows its clothes. (The population has grown 25% to 23M in just the last 10 years). Highways here were ten lanes in each direction and often clogged. Yet Cairo was minuscule compared to Mexico City or Tokyo.  How big could the world’s urban centers get, I wondered? How much growth could the world handle?  How much could any city? Over half the world’s 8 billion people now lived in cities, and the trend was accelerating.

Eventually, the thick parade of vehicles thinned as the Toyota sped us on toward Alexander’s ancient capital.  The number of buildings thinned out too. In their place we saw resorts, some of which had not succeeded, clusters of homes and beyond that broad orchards brimming with date and olive trees. The highway as four lanes wide and every so often a knot of people would shoot from one side of the freeway to the other, as if they had apparated out of the desert.  Where they came from or where they were going was unclear, but a microbus was usually involved. At another point the Toyota zip passed an 18 wheeler that read “Love Jesus.“ In a mostly Muslim country, didn’t expect that.

Meanwhile, Youssef, as bereft of English as we were of Arabic, stayed to himself. In fact he seemed unaware of our existence, treating us, whether we wanted it or not, to his favorite (and loudest) music — Arab Rock would be the best way to put it — while smoking one Egyptian cigarette after another.  Now and again he would assure us, “You like my driving? It’s good!!” Or sometimes, “Water?” Otherwise we lounged in the back seat and felt the wind from our open windows rush past like the days when I was a kid in the family car making our way to Virginia Beach.

Exploring Alexandria, Egypt: Food, Streets, and Local Life

A six lane road bends along the coast of Egypt with cars strung end-to-end between blue water on one side and parks and buildings on the other.

By 2 pm we were weaving our way along Alexandria’s marvelous corniche, one of the most scenic promenades in Egypt, a great strand of road that skirts the Mediterranean, lined with cafes, buses, and the energetic rhythm of local Egyptian culture. It soon took us to the Steigenberger, Cecil Hotel. When I began to pay Youssef in Egyptian pounds, he was very insistent that he not only be paid for the cost of the trip Osama had arranged, but be tipped —Baksheesh in Arabic lingo. I hadn’t yet developed my theory that Osama probably owned the car Youssef was driving. I figured he owned the car, was being well paid and didn't require a tip. He did not see it that way.

“No, no!" He rubbed his thumb and index finger. "Tip. For airport, and here. I give you water. I drive good! It's a big long drive." It was my ignorance I suppose. But the way he demanded the money bothered me more than anything.  His lack of English probably didn’t help. He pushed hard and was almost panicked. I suppose I would have been upset too if I had worked most of day, hadn’t made a dime and had to pay for the gas. Frankly I was exasperated, but we agreed on 1000 Egyptian pounds, about $20 and then Youssef, now smiling enthusiastically and shaking my hand, asked that we have our pictures taken together. “I will take you back to Cairo. Take you all around Alexandria!” I passed on the photo, and assured him that if we needed any help, we would be in touch. But we really didn’t want to be chauffeured around either city and the plan was to take the train back to Cairo. I never saw him again.

Alexandria Dining Adventure: Fish, Cash, and Cultural Confusion

My tete-a-tete with Youssef wasn't my only financial misadventure of the day. Once settled in our sprawling room at the Steigenberger Cecil Hotel, grand building on the Corniche seemingly plucked directly from the 1930s, food became a priority.

We dropped by the front desk where Cyndy asked if anyone could suggest a good local restaurant, a place where we could find the sort of meal one of them might like to eat.

“Down the corniche, to the left, perhaps a kilometer,” suggested a tall man with perfect hair. “Very good fish. Many of our colleagues and patrons go there.”

We stepped outside. The sunlight was golden with a warm, stiff breeze coming off the Mediterranean as we headed down the uneven stone sidewalks that lined the inner walk of the strand. Alexandria’s corniche rims the great sea that made so much of the ancient world possible; a ten mile promenade of cobbled walks bounded by beautifully crafted rock. It’s one of the world’s more arresting sites, and was a riot of activity.  Alexandria always is. Hundreds of microbuses wended their way along the great boulevard with 16 people jammed into every one of the bus’ four rows. Local folks called the vans micro-bassats (mee-krow bah sat), basset meaning local, and they are used by the millions throughout Egypt. And why not? It costs $.05-$.10 to use one, and you pay in Egyptian pounds to the driver when you get on. They dominated the road as we navigated the sidewalks, and climbed its big curbs, working our way through the city’s denizens. There were no tourist here, not one we saw; only Alexandrians – men at battered cafes, smoking strong cigarettes and sipping stronger coffee; street kids, mostly boys, maybe eight-years-old, wearing worn shoes and tattered jeans; women, young and old, clad almost always their hijabs, often arm-in-arm with another woman.

We weren’t finding many restaurants on our walk and as the sun dropped toward the sea and were beginning to wonder if we had somehow missed the place. We were about to turn around when we found it – Kadoura, it was called.

We walked inside to a wall of recently living fish buried in great piles of ice that showed off a variety of piscine delights. Four men faced us and quickly figured out we weren't local. They explained the routine. We had our pick of sea bass, prawn, crab, lobster, pretty much  anything that could be hauled out of the Mediterranean. All we had to do was choose the fish we wanted. We would be charged by the kilo, about 350 Egyptian pounds each or roughly $12 a pound. We ask the man to choose sea bass. He did and then gently directed us upstairs to a dining area filled with local families. At the other end was a large griddle and soon the fish was in front of us, grilled perfectly along with bowls of brown rice, fish soup, hummus, tahini, pickled vegetables, salad, and pita bread. It was all delicious, especially the sea bass, flash grilled, crispy on the outside and moist on the inside. We picked it clean and scooped up all the rest. The soup was made of crabmeat, milk and butter broth, with small clams and shrimp thrown in. We wolfed it all down as we looked out the big window and watched the constant passage of people below. Then it was time to pay, and that was my second economic mishap of the day.

Egypt Travel Tip: How I Almost Couldn't Pay for Dinner

When traveling I keep cash in my right pocket. In cities where the exchange rate means you have great wads of cash on hand because of the exchange rate, I keep smaller bills on the right and the larger ones in a second left lower pocket of my Eddie Bauer Ascent cargo pants which can be zipped shut. When I searched my right pocket, I realized that after paying Youssef, I was short of Egyptian pounds. Certainly not enough to pay for dinnner.

How am I going to pay for this meal, I thought? I told Cyn the situation and then walked to the steps below to find the very dark, handsome man, who had waited on us.

“I’m so sorry,” I explained. “Is there an ATM nearby.”

“Of course,” he says. “Down the street.” He pointed down the street.

Off I went into the twilight, weaving through the crowd. In a couple of blocks I found the ATM. Not far away a woman was sitting with her son, wailing about something she was unhappy about and giving the boy, about nine-years-old a pretty hard time. She hit him once and he shrunk back. I felt badly for him. I wanted to tell him, “Come on, you can hang out with us. But what would that accomplish and he’d think I was nuts anyhow. I couldn’t tell if the mother was simply having a bad day or might have suffered from some mental or emotional disability. It’s a big world, I thought, much of it is filled with pain, and I felt powerless to make it go away. I waited for the man at the ATM in front of me. He was there for a long time. Finally he turned and looked at me. The machine was out of order. I tried it any way. He was right.

Now what? I stood in the Alexandrian darkness, marinating in the beeps and crowds and the distant sound of the Mediterranean’s pounding surf. I began to walk back to the Kadoura wondering what I would tell the people who ran the place. I had no solution really. Leave something behind as collateral until I returned with payment, wash dishes, clean the toilets, haul fish (I had once done something like this in London when I was stuck without and needed a place to sleep)? And then a light bulb! I felt for my left lower left cargo pant pocket, the one with the zipper. Yes!! That was where I had stashed the larger bills we had exchange at the airport with Osama at my elbow, the back-up, “fat” cash I did not keep handy in my right pocket. How stupid! But what relief! I could pay the bill! And I wouldn’t have to haul fish heads out of the brine all night to pay off the meal.

I walked back to hotel infinitely lighter on my feet and when I strolled in I saw Cyndy sitting on the steps, wide eyed. My God, I had walked off to work things out with the waiter and left the restaurant without letting her know I was in search of cash! The look on her face clearly said, “And you have been where?”

“I’m so sorry, honey” I said, with the waiter probably wondering what the big deal was. He didn’t know we had only been in Egypt for 24 hours and might have been hauled away by the authorities or worse. Too many movies where the bad guys are Arab.

I paid the man and Cyn and I sauntered back to the Cecil. She forgave me and not long afterwards we settled into out beds. I fell asleep thinking of great fish swimming all around me in the Mediterranean Sea with one continually coming back to me and saying, “Where’s my money?”

FAQ

Q1: Can tourists drive from Cairo to Alexandria?

A: Yes, although driving in Egypt — especially in Cairo — can be overwhelming for foreign visitors. It’s often easier to arrange a private car service from Cairo to Alexandria, sometimes right at the airport with help from a government staffer. Drivers are usually skilled and courteous, though English is not guaranteed. The trip takes about 2.5 to 3 hours depending on traffic.

Q2: How much does it cost to use a car service?

A: Prices vary, but expect something comparable to Egypt’s train fares for this route — often higher than buses, but with far more convenience. We paid $80 for two passengers, which was fair for a private ride with door-to-door service. A tip is expected — 20–25% is generous and appropriate.

Q3: What is the Steigenberger Cecil hotel in Alexandria like?

A: Built in 1929, the Steigenberger Cecil Hotel still feels like a grand, romantic Alexandria hotel from that era. Overlooking Saad Zaghloul Square along the vibrant Corniche, it’s hosted everyone from Winston Churchill to Al Capone. Rooms lean toward black, white, and bronze decor. The staff is welcoming, and the breakfast buffet is legendary — eggs, fresh pastries, hummus, baba ghanoush, fruit, cereal, and more. Just don’t expect decaf coffee.

Q4: What can we expect from the Alexandria Corniche?

A: The Alexandria Corniche is a sweeping waterfront promenade bounded by the Mediterranean Sea on one side and city parks and buildings on the other. It’s loud, energetic, and distinctly local — you won’t find many tourists here, or many restaurants though there is no shortage of street food.  What you will find are unbeatable views of the sea and skyline, especially near the distant Citadel of Qaitbay, built where the Lighthouse of Alexandria once stood.

This is Dispatch XXXVIII in a series about a Vagabond’s Adventures - journalist and National Geographic Explorer Chip Walter and his wife Cyndy’s effort to capture their experience exploring all seven continents, all seven seas and 100+ countries, never traveling by jet.

If you’ve enjoyed this dispatch, please take a look at Chip’s other adventures (and misadventures) … and don’t forget to check the Vagabond Journal  and our Travel Recommendations to help you plan YOUR next adventure.

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Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/cairo-to-alexandria-travel-story

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Thrill Ride Through Baja: Mexico’s Epic 1000-Mile Adventure

 

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.

The town of Mulege in Baja. Small shops line a small street with cars parked on either side. In the background is a small ridge with homes and a tall cell tower.

 “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.

A small campground sits on a secluded Baja beach under a blue sky. A tent and bench sits in the shade of the lone tree on the beach.

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

A silhouetted figure looks over the boats in the La Paz harbor at sunset. The bright orange and red clouds shine above.

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!

Your Vagabonds,

 

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/driving-mexicos-baja-1000-part-two

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