October 25 to November 25 we travelled south through Washington, Oregon, Nevada and California. After a two-week stopover to visit a friend in San Rafael, we continued on to San Diego. From there we took the short drive to the US/Mexican border at Tijuana. We crossed the border on foot, and after an interesting afternoon investigating the availability of propane for our truck on the Baja, we were ready to venture into Mexico.

Part 4: Dec. 10, 1983

La Paz, Baja California

This part of Mexico is really like a hybrid. It is a part of Mexico, of course, but geographically, and economically it is an extension of California. Entering at Tijuana you are just waved through (to stop would hold up the flow of traffic). No questions, no conversation — just keep driving. Going the other way is definitely not the same routine, but we will be re-entering the US probably at Laredo.

So you find yourself on a multi-lane highway to Ensenada, about 80 miles south of Tijuana. No visas, no immigration papers, no car import papers, no inspections, nothing. The log supplied by the insurance people says that there is a checkpoint just south of Ensenada, which may or may not be open, and you are supposed to have your visa "validated" there — otherwise you are in the country illegally after 72 hours. We never did locate this place, and after many miles realized that we must be long past it, if in fact, it was there at all. After a couple of days of thinking about the hazards of travelling without a visa, we hit upon the brilliant idea of going in to one of the local braches of Turismo; the book said there was one at Santa Rosalia, about 500 miles down the peninsula. It was not too hard to find; the sign was still on the building, which had long ago been abandoned. Scrap that idea and keep driving . . . you can’t ask a local about visas. They don’t know what you’re talking about, never having been involved with such things.

The drive down Baja was interesting in many places. After getting topped up with propane in Ensenada, past all the beaches occupied by Americans with accompanying signs in Spanish which read, "Let’s reclaim our own beaches from the gringos," the countryside changed and so did the signs. The 900 or so miles to La Paz have only a few small towns. Until the highway was put through, these towns were accessible only by a trail, or by sea. Between the towns there were miles of interesting but absolutely desolate terrain with no sign whatsoever of people or animals.

The terrain was certainly not what you would call flat, nor was it rolling, so that with few exceptions it was constantly twisting, turning, rising, falling, etc. The pavement was wide enough for us and a truck to pass each other if you either put your left side on the white line (where there was a white line), or your right side on the rough sharp edge of the pavement (there were no gravel shoulders — there were no shoulders) and pass each other at about 20 mp/h. Since all the above factors seldom coincide, the lack of a shoulder involved some risk. The right edge of the pavement was seldom a straight line, parts of it having disappeared leaving rather large holes and/or a drop of six inches or more at times. Sometimes, to protect a culvert, there is a low concrete wall built exactly at the edge of the pavement, and sometimes grass, weeds or cactus hides these. The odds increase! We were luckier than a fellow RVer we met in a trailer park who hit one of these chunks of concrete, wrote off the tire and wheel and then found that 16.5" wheels are not available in Mexico.

Just south of Ensenada there is a phenomenon called La Bufadora, which is a narrowing cleft or hole in the rocks at the sea’s edge, and which causes each incoming wave to explode upwards with a great whoosh of air, followed by a geyser of water. Very spectacular.

One night we came to a parador, literally a stopping place, but it looked like a great trailer park. As we entered we noticed that the manager’s building seemed to have been slightly vandalized, but we spotted a car in the park so drove in. The car was abandoned; the beautifully constructed building which had contained showers, and what had been a completely equipped residence, had been gutted and there was no one else in the park. It was properly laid out with pull-throughs, electrical and sewer connections and water faucets at each site. It was nicely paved and landscaped with various indigenous cacti, and surrounded by a high chain link fence, and located immediately adjacent to a Pemex (gasoline stop). It was dusk and we had no idea where the next place to stop might be. As we debated whether we could or should stay, another turista drove in. He stayed, and so did we.

Mexicans have an acceptance of "doing without." We are not willing to, and of course I include ourselves with our fellow Americans as the world’s greatest wasters. Of everything. We cannot get along without great quantities of water. But the Mexicans have for centuries, and when the water they supply us with fails, they don’t scurry around to fix whatever the problem is. They wait . . . usually patiently, and, I think, are amused at our consternation. An interesting sociologic study.

We spent two nights in San Ignacio in order to get propane on Monday at the local depot, but when we got there the attendant refused to fill me. He kept repeating, "Go to Mulege — Moo-luh-hay." He seemed to have everything required, and I could not understand why. It wasn’t very far away, but the streets were very narrow and twisting in this very old town, and we asked several people for directions as the streets became narrower and rockier. They all kept pointing ahead as we became more and more worried. It wasn’t that I thought I could not back up half a mile or so through the narrow streets with a 5^th wheel behind me. It’s the dogs and kids and the traffic that piles up on your rear bumper, and if you move forward an inch to let them past, so do they, in a constant effort to get around, over or under you. They cheer when Lois gets out with her walkie-talkie, but finally we found the place.

Last night we went with another couple to a very interesting patio-type restaurant with an open air-type courtyard with trees and much foliage and flowers under the stars. Admission included a margarita, hors d’oeuvres Mexican-style, and unique entertainment that consisted of flamenco-type dancers, Mexican-style square dancing in costume by assorted numbers of couples (very pretty girls), and ending with the traditional Mexican Hat Dance. Then a pair of roosters with covered spurs that had been waiting in the background with their owners, and only the occasional loud crowing, was brought in for a cockfight that was ended when one of them began to get the upper hand. Next came a mariachi band of three violins, two guitars, a guitaron and a horn. There was much solo singing and band harmonizing and the three hours passed very pleasantly.

The night before reaching La Paz we came across an idyllic curving sandy beach on a bay dotted with rocky islets, and a couple of sailing craft anchored offshore in the crystal clear-blue water. The usual thatched palapas scattered here and there completed the picture. There were about 20 campers, about half of them from Europe, Finland, Germany, the UK, Switzerland, etc., most of them in the ubiquitous VW Westphalia. We thought that that little bay was one of those spots, where, had it been a painting, one might have said that the artist imagined it — it just couldn’t exist in real life. We’d like to have lingered, but as it turned out, best we didn’t.

On the fifth day we got to La Paz, where there are many ferry routes to the mainland, and the game here is to see how soon you can get a reservation. But Murphy’s Law comes into play, specifically the sixth corollary to Murphy’s Law, which states, "whenever you set out to do something, first you must do something else." It is perhaps difficult to understand the Mexicans’ love of multiple-copy paper work, and the importance they attach to the use of rubber stamps, which in many cases have long since become illegible.

So, at the ferry reservations office we found we couldn’t get a reservation because we had no car papers. It’s at La Paz, where all paper work takes place so this is effectively the border between the US and mainland Mexico, regardless of the fact that we are already almost 1000 miles into Mexico. Eventually, we located the Oficina de Registro, and at the counter the girl asked for our visas. She rolled her eyes and simply handed me back my Ontario car registration. So we decided we had better go to the local Turismo (where they have been most helpful in past instances) and as it turned out, there was no problem. He directed us to the local Immigraciones, where we obtained visas, and with the sixth corollary in force went back to the Registro.

We got the same girl as before, but this time we got a smile. After she had located all the necessary papers, which took quite a while (this is all she did all day) and she had studied the truck and trailer registrations, she asked where the vehicle was. She said that I would have to bring it right in front of the office. Narrow street, double-parking, traffic blocked, etc., and once again handed me back my papers. So I fetched the truck, double-parked it and went in again. Nice smile again, papers across the counter, "And where is the trailer, Señor?" to which I replied, of course, "In the trailer park." I got my papers handed back for the third time, with a "Señor, you have to bring the trailer also." That put us into our third day in La Paz. It would seem that there is no way that you can get all the information you need at one time.

So the next morning, bright and early out of the trailer park and down to the Registro. Same routine — double-parking, etc. Papers filled out, windshield stickers handed to a flunky who has to put them on — too complicated for a gringo to be entrusted with, I guess.

Now we are ready to tackle the ferry office, but it is almost noon and the ferry office is cerrado, not just for siesta, but also for the rest of the day. The following morning at the ferry office I was told that there were no more reservations until the 25^th. After some argument with the fellow who spoke reasonable English, and getting nowhere, a third man intervened with some rapid Spanish (which I was unable to follow), the entire office stopped what they were doing to listen. The clerk asked me where my motorhome was, and was it longer than 17 metres? So we walked around the corner and he said, "Oh, it’s just a pickup." Back to the office and he told the girl "Twelve metres," and we have a reservation for next Tuesday, but not to Puerto Vallarta. We’re going from La Paz to Topolabampa, which is about 600 miles north of where we had hoped to get to. The choices are limited, and it seems to be that, or drive back around the head of the Sea of Cortez a distance of about 2500 miles. We constantly remind ourselves that this is Mexico and things are different.

Back in La Paz on Monday morning, a continuous rumble of heavy motors indicated a rush to the ferry terminal, although the ferry doesn’t leave until evening! We are on tomorrow’s list. The apparent need to get there early would seem to indicate a lingering uncertainty as to the entire affair.

Next Issue: Mainland Mexico