The alarm went off at 4:30am as planned. The only time I hear this song is when some extraordinary thing is happening, in most cases revolving around international travel, where we have a plane to catch to some new to us destination. Nearly in all of those cases, the alarm is only a formality, as on those days sleep never comes, departure anxiety forcing me to look at the clock every few minutes, until it’s time to get up, the song only a reminder that it is a travel day.
I turn the kettle on, and try to work on the final trailer breakdown, disconnecting water, sewer, and electric, while Lisa loads the car. Being relatively new at this, we’re still trying to figure out our routines, who is responsible for what, so it’s slow going, and we don’t get on the road until six, our friends already waiting for us at our meeting point twenty minutes away.
We fill up, distribute walkie talkies, and head for the border at the next exit. With our slower vehicle, encumbered by a trailer, we are to set the pace for the drive South, with our friends taking up the rear.
In both vehicles, there is a palpable anxiety that there is no turning back now. All of the fear, uncertainty, and doubt of what to expect on the other side; all of the apprehension built up reading department of state travel advisories; all of the stories of people being stopped by crooked cops, searched, robbed, or kidnapped by bandidos; all of these fears we face when we step over that border. It didn’t help that at that the night before, 29 people died in violence with the Sinaloa cartel who was trying to stop El Chapo’s son from being arrested. Mind you, that was on mainland Mexico, far from where we were headed.
The crossing into Mexico had no cars, with the opposing traffic heading into the United States gridlocked as far as the eye could see. Having watched several videos on the subject of crossing the border, I chose to go into the “Autodéclaration” lane, for those who have something to declare. When traveling with a trailer, it’s going to get searched anyway, whether you have something to declare or not, so it’s easier to go into the declaration lanes where they already have inspection parking. This parking also happens to be next to the building where you get your tourist visa, allowing you to get everything done without needing to re-park your hard to maneuver vehicle.
Inspection consisted of a border officer coming into the trailer, looking around without touching anything for about seven seconds, exiting the trailer, and returning to the much more interesting text conversation that she was having on her phone.
We all then walked to the immigration building next door to get our tourist visas. Not knowing how long we would be staying in Mexico, Lisa and I asked for the maximum term of 180 days. I have read, that some capricious immigration officials will choose to write in arbitrary lengths of stay, regardless of what you ask for, so I was relieved that the officer wrote in the full 180 days, before handing us our visas and passports. We were in and out of there in about thirty minutes.
Our plan was to caravan with our friends for three days to the final destination of El Sargento/La Ventana, BCS, a world class kiteboarding destination.
Our goal for the first day is to cross the northern state of Baja California and try to make it to Guerrero Negro, the first town in the state of Baja California Sur, which encompasses the Southern half of the Baja peninsula. Today, starting with Mexicali at the border we will make our way down the inside coast along the Gulf of California, eventually crossing the peninsula to the Pacific coast to arrive at Guerrero Negro. Over the next three days, we will zigzag down the diagonal peninsula, alternating coasts like this five times.
Mexicali is about what you would expect, reminding me of a Mexican, more desert-y version of Buffalo. Not particularly pretty, though it’s not like El Centro on the US side had much going for it either.
As the town faded into the background, so did most of the border crossing anxiety occupying both vehicles at the start of the day. Now in our rearview mirrors, Mexicali was replaced by an expansive mirage inducing desertscape that stretches for a hundred miles, all the way to San Felipe, our first gas stop.
It occurs to me that the more South we go, the more adventurous is the kind of expat you find there. For example there were those who ended up staking their flags in Sunbeam RV park in El Centro, the farthest destination in the US before crossing into Mexico, possibly because it’s not as scary or complicated like Mexico. Then the next layer of expats can be found in San Felipe, which is in Mexico, just not too far into Mexico. It is very well developed, with plenty of food, gas, lodging, sunshine, and just a bite of adventure.
San Felipe is where I need to fill my jerry cans, as the next gas stop may not be for 210 miles, and I only have 170 mile range while pulling the trailer. There is a possibility that there may be a gas station half way in between, though reports are that it is often closed or out of gas, and therefore we have to plan for the worst.
In Mexico, you don’t fill your own gas, so before pulling up to the pump, Lisa and I argued as how to say “fill up the cans in the back of the trailer” in Spanish, specifically whether to say cans, or tanks. I don’t really know what I said to the attendant, I could have called her mom an armadillo for all I know, though seemingly she got my drift and filled the cans with the pump nearest the rear of the trailer. What the attendant didn’t understand was my miming to urge her to fill up the tank to the top. With her English as limited as my Spanish, she tried to communicate back that for some reason she would have to restart the filling process in order to top up the tank. Not wanting to argue about a couple liters, I gave up and moved the trailer so that our friends could also experience their first fill up in Mexico.
Whereas I drove over the border and to San Felipe, with no sleep the night prior, it was Lisa’s turn to take over driving. It was for the best, as this stretch of road we would have to go at a very slow speed, until we found out whether the gas station half-way to Guerrero Negro existed, was open, and had gas, our three known unknowns.
What we didn’t know that we didn’t know, was that as soon as we left San Felipe, the road narrowed, became winding, and the shoulders disappeared making it near impossible to go any speed but slow.
It was a long tough slog for Lisa, with the wheel of the trailer dangerously on the precipice of the road, our friends behind us in a constant state of anxiety that the next corner will be our last before the trailer falls off and takes us along with it.
There were two or three military checkpoints along the way. At each checkpoint we were lucky to get waved through, whereas our friends would invariably get stopped, whether to be questioned about their intentions in Mexico, or to have their van searched. At each checkpoint we didn’t see our friends behind us, and would park on the shoulder, if one existed, and lie in wait just beyond view of the authorities so as not to arouse suspicion.
On this day, the gas station existed, it was open, and it had gas, though not the premium that the manual to my car insists in bold letters is the only gas that can be consumed. Perhaps the writers have never been to Mexico, and so we drank at the fountain of petrol, octane be damned.
With range anxiety quelled, Lisa and I could again switch driving duties, and I could put the pedal to the metal to try to make up the lost hours that Lisa spent rowing the steering wheel for the last 100 miles.
As we crossed the peninsula from the gulf coast to the Pacific coast, the landscape became an ever changing kaleidoscope of deserts. Cacti changing from baby Joshua Trees to forests of cactus varieties that look like the stick figure stickers that one would see describing the family on the back of every soccer mom mobile.
With the increased vigor enabled by the freshly refilled gasoline, we arrived at Guerrero Negro, on time, an hour before dusk, making up all of the time we lost trying to conserve fuel, and stay alive, on the road.
At the edge of the city of Guerrero Negro, one is required to go through an agricultural checkpoint, where one pays twenty pesos to drive through an undercarriage spray of dubious provenance, “disinfecting” the car and so allowing it to enter the Southern state.
Having done our part, we only had to drive a few more kilometers to stay at the campground at the back of Mario’s restaurant.
It was a really cool restaurant, built out of the wood from the local Cacti. The food was passable, but the ambiance, and gratitude for having a safe place to park for the night, more than made up for it.
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