After three weeks' kicking around down here, I finally feel I can relay a hurricane damage report. When we returned the rental car in Todo Santos, the agent there told us a little bit about the hurricane and gave us the Spanish word for damage: dano.
We hear that Todos Santos was hit harder than Cabo or Pescadero. They say the winds lasted over 10 hours there and left 20 dead in Baja California Sur. Shopkeepers all over Todos Santos told us of the repairs they had to make, the walls that had been painted and the inventory that had been replaced. Here in Pescadero it was more wind than rain, and the wind and the rapid wash of rainwater down the arroyos caused the most damage.
Although most of the gringo places seem to have escaped unscathed by the storm's ravages, a closer look at all of Pescadero reveals a different story. Some businesses along the Transpeninsular Highway in Pescadero were completely demolished and have not been rebuilt. One was The Sand Bar where Bruce and I watched the Super Bowl last year. The only remaining hints of its existence are the partial palapa lying smashed on the ground and the twisted, empty metal framework of what was once their sign. Just north up the road from that site an empty cement slab and a pizza oven mark the location of what was the best little pizza place in town. Further north along the highway we spotted some ruins where Felipe's Restaurant was. There is little hope they will reopen.
True to the email I received while still in the States and inquiring about a motel where we hoped to stay, the motel was completely destroyed. The current owners simply hand-lettered a "For Sale" sign beachside, tacked up a realtor's sign streetside and walked away from it. Most windows and all the doors are gone. Only one room sports a functioning roof. Furniture has vanished, but oddly enough, a peek through an open doorway shows drinking glasses balanced on the sink's edge. The yard is littered with downed palm trees and cement pillars. Our host here, Bobby tells us that is what everything in the area looked like after the hurricane, but most (gringos) got right after it, cleaned up vegetation and made arrangements for repairs.
Bobby's wife, Wendy, took time one day to relate their experiences during the hurricane. They stayed in their house that night. Their boys feared sleeping in the upper story, so everyone moved to the ground floor. Before nightfall, they watched the retaining wall (which had been erected to protect the house) wash down the arroyo. Later, a wall of water rolled down the arroyo aimed directly at their rear door. Bobby turned the heavy dining room table on its side, placing it in front of the door while Wendy hustled the boys out the side door. Somehow all four found their way to the fifth wheeler further uphill on their property, away from the arroyo. Somehow the little trailer and the family within made it through the night. The next morning they once again entered their home, finding over two feet of sand, mud and sludge covering the ground floor. The foundation and the ground under it had been washed away from one corner of the three story home, leaving a hole five feet deep. Friends from church brought wheelbarrows and soon all were working to clear debris from the house and build a supporting wall under it. All ground story furniture and rugs had to be replaced. The whole interior lower story and the exterior needed repainting. Wendy was surprised and grateful to find her tile floors intact. Bruce, viewing the hole dug under the house by rushing water, says it is really amazing the whole house didn't topple over!
Robert, who owns Dr. Robert's Ocean Oasis, three or four doors down, said he lost the roofs on all his buildings. The women who opened a lunch counter last year on the corner of his lot have not been back to repair the roof, rebuild the palapa patio or reopen the business. Robert rebuilt several of the upper stories on his buildings and re-roofed everything so he would be ready for this year's peak season. His place now looks good as new, as do most gringo places.
The hurricane left gifts as well as damage in its wake. For the first time ever, we are seeing "help wanted" signs in restaurants and stores. The landowner across the street from us was busy last year overseeing the Mexicans who were cleaning up his palm grove. They did get it done last year, but then the hurricane came, providing the workers with more employment. Everyday we hear his crew out there singing, laughing, joking, playing their radios and celebrating the never-ending employment! Everywhere, Mexicans are busy building cinder block/cement walls, installing new doors and windows, repairing palapa roofs. Bobby has been waiting since before we got here to have a new palapa built onto our casita. Today, the team finally showed. I imagine Bobby was heartily disappointed when they left midday to finish another job elsewhere. Lots of gringos are hiring Mexicans to repair their places and the continued employment must be helping the local economy.
The gift we have enjoyed most is all the firewood distributed along the beach. Other years, beach bonfires were rare as firewood was so scarce. Now, almost daily, we see evidence of yet another beach bonfire. When friend Bob was here he asked Bobby if Bobby had some charcoal we could us to grill some fish. Bobby reported that all the store sold it........then he relented and told us that a few nights ago he had grilled meat for his family, using cactus wood from the beach and what a nice flavor it imparted. Bob bought some fresh shrimp, boiled it, then "finished it" on the grill over that same cactus wood. Oh, was it tasty! When it was time to take Jenny, Bob's wife, to the airport in Cabo, we all rode along, now obsessed about finding more things to grill over the cactus. We grilled chicken, hamburgers, potatoes and poblano peppers. We ate like kings; cooking over fuel delivered for free, straight from the mountains....gifts from the hurricane.
And for the final gift, we see Gary's dream being fulfilled. That house he started so many years ago is now being finished by the new owners. We haven't talked to them yet this year to really know if hurricane damage inspired the work. We are just happy to see Gary's dream and legacy completed.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Delightful Running in Baja
Oh, I know where you will immediately go in your imaginations when you read that title. Now imagine a big wave washing up on the shore, and as it goes out to sea, let that image of a lithe, brown bikini-clad woman running in the sand wash away with the returning wave. Of course that isn't me. And I am only wishing that is the image that came to your mind. Come away from the shore now, back to where the sand lies in hard packed layers and where you can hear the surf crashing in the distance. That is where I run in my modest shorts, gross pure-poly race shirt, sport sox and running shoes. And nearly every run session offers up new delights.
As soon as the sun works it's way above the Sierra Laguna mountains to our east and peeps its first light into our windows, I am awake and donning my running garb and am out the door in time to be blinded by that sun as it breaks low on our horizon. The air is unusually cool, the birds singing sweetly, and only a few Mexicans and vigilant dogs are out taking advantage of the morning air. It is mighty fine to greet a Baja day with a run.
By now, I've established four routes that even a directionally-impaired gringa can safely navigate. Each one differs enough to offer fresh experiences on each rotation. The surfaces of each route provide sand hard enough for easy running and soft enough for little impact on old joints. Few cars travel the narrow roads at this hour, so sharing it with those eager drivers is no problem.
The running route most parallel to the beach jogs east before cutting south through fields of basil. The workers come to the fields before dawn and when they are harvesting (by hand) the air fills even more strongly with the aroma of sweet basil. Other run routes take off east away from the ocean and toward the rising sun. At a point halfway through my 5K run the tranquil rural road climbs to the high speed Transpeninsular Highway, the only highway serving the entire length of Baja. One morning clouds backed up against the mountains and delayed sunrise a quarter hour or so. I approached the highway just as the sun promised to break over the tops of the clouds. I heard the rare sound of a tractor's engine behind me just as I reached my turn around point. As I turned my route homeward and toward the approaching tractor I was greeted by that wonderful glow of morning sun. There, caught in the sun's first direct rays, piled high on the tractor, four smiling Mexican faces greeted me. The joy reflected on their lit-up smiles and eyes propelled me forward.
The most northerly route I use is a bit shorter than the others and offers a brief beach view. A frequent visitor to the quiet beaches in the early morning light is a lone caballero riding his horse bareback while leading another. The second, riderless horse bears red taped sox above all four hooves. One morning I came upon the trio within a quarter mile of the highway. The riderless horse became aware of me before the cowboy, and nervously turned his equine head toward me. On the second look, he gave a little toss of his head and I decided better to walk for a bit than upset them all. By now the cowboy turned to see what was causing the ruckus. With a smile and a wave accompanying his over-the-shoulder glance, he guided the horses up a side road where I could just see the corner of a building hidden in the trees.
One brave day I finished this shorter route much more quickly than anticipated, so I tried a very short loop on that soft, sandy beach. Ha! And I thought the elliptical machine set at an incline in the gym was hard work! I did complete my distance there in the soft mushy sand (requiring a valiant effort) before returning to the ease of the harder sandy road. Remember, all this is at sea level and much easier and faster than at home in Montana. Nonetheless, i was feeling rather proud of myself for going the distance in the soft sand and not giving in to fatigue and sore muscles. Now you can picture Suzanne Stallone at the end of that beach jog, fists above head, smiling at her little personal victory. And if you listen closely, I bet you can almost hear that theme song refraining, "running strong now......"
It does help, when running, to have a good imagination.
As soon as the sun works it's way above the Sierra Laguna mountains to our east and peeps its first light into our windows, I am awake and donning my running garb and am out the door in time to be blinded by that sun as it breaks low on our horizon. The air is unusually cool, the birds singing sweetly, and only a few Mexicans and vigilant dogs are out taking advantage of the morning air. It is mighty fine to greet a Baja day with a run.
By now, I've established four routes that even a directionally-impaired gringa can safely navigate. Each one differs enough to offer fresh experiences on each rotation. The surfaces of each route provide sand hard enough for easy running and soft enough for little impact on old joints. Few cars travel the narrow roads at this hour, so sharing it with those eager drivers is no problem.
The running route most parallel to the beach jogs east before cutting south through fields of basil. The workers come to the fields before dawn and when they are harvesting (by hand) the air fills even more strongly with the aroma of sweet basil. Other run routes take off east away from the ocean and toward the rising sun. At a point halfway through my 5K run the tranquil rural road climbs to the high speed Transpeninsular Highway, the only highway serving the entire length of Baja. One morning clouds backed up against the mountains and delayed sunrise a quarter hour or so. I approached the highway just as the sun promised to break over the tops of the clouds. I heard the rare sound of a tractor's engine behind me just as I reached my turn around point. As I turned my route homeward and toward the approaching tractor I was greeted by that wonderful glow of morning sun. There, caught in the sun's first direct rays, piled high on the tractor, four smiling Mexican faces greeted me. The joy reflected on their lit-up smiles and eyes propelled me forward.
The most northerly route I use is a bit shorter than the others and offers a brief beach view. A frequent visitor to the quiet beaches in the early morning light is a lone caballero riding his horse bareback while leading another. The second, riderless horse bears red taped sox above all four hooves. One morning I came upon the trio within a quarter mile of the highway. The riderless horse became aware of me before the cowboy, and nervously turned his equine head toward me. On the second look, he gave a little toss of his head and I decided better to walk for a bit than upset them all. By now the cowboy turned to see what was causing the ruckus. With a smile and a wave accompanying his over-the-shoulder glance, he guided the horses up a side road where I could just see the corner of a building hidden in the trees.
One brave day I finished this shorter route much more quickly than anticipated, so I tried a very short loop on that soft, sandy beach. Ha! And I thought the elliptical machine set at an incline in the gym was hard work! I did complete my distance there in the soft mushy sand (requiring a valiant effort) before returning to the ease of the harder sandy road. Remember, all this is at sea level and much easier and faster than at home in Montana. Nonetheless, i was feeling rather proud of myself for going the distance in the soft sand and not giving in to fatigue and sore muscles. Now you can picture Suzanne Stallone at the end of that beach jog, fists above head, smiling at her little personal victory. And if you listen closely, I bet you can almost hear that theme song refraining, "running strong now......"
It does help, when running, to have a good imagination.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Pilgrimage to Cerritos
After four days of "working hard" on our tans I was beginning to think we may have reached that magic place where we can stay outside all day without worry of deep sunburn. When Bruce suggested we make the walk to Cerritos, a tourist Mecca two or three miles down the coast, it felt like we were ready.
This year I brought along a little comfy sun dress which seems to make a perfect bathing suit cover-up for a woman of my age and modesty level. I would at least look like I belonged at Cerritos this year! In years past we arrived all hot and sweaty looking like a couple of aging hippie hikers from Montana in zip-away shorts, light-weight traveling shirts and empty water bottles. Besides getting to enjoy a much easier swimming beach, we love the frosty cold beers they serve. This morning we took the dusty dirt road roughly paralleling the shoreline through gringo neighborhoods and Mexican farmlands. When we can look down from the hilltop and see the bell tower of the resort, we know we are almost there. A naturally cool large stone circular stairway with enclosing stone walls takes guests from the resort down to the beach, land of lounge chairs, massage tables, surf and boogie board rentals, bar, and restaurant. The only way we can get from the road down to the beach is via the staircase, but no one seems to mind, and no one else seems to ever use it! As soon as we make our way to two empty lounge chairs, a Mexican waiter appears asking (in English) if we would like an umbrella. I explained that my husband wanted shade and I wanted more sun. With a smile and a nod he hurried off to retrieve an umbrella and with no need for minor adjustment, placed it in the sand just right so it gave us the desired shady/sunny outcome. I ordered a couple of beers and a menu...it was nearly lunchtime. Bruce had time to dip into the water before the waiter returned a third time, now with a small bucket filled with ice and two beers. How perfect! Even a slow sipping sun worshipper like me would have a beer that was cold right down to the final drop! The menus showed limited and over-priced items, all catering to gringo tastes, all prices in US dollars! Bruce ordered $5 hot dog because it came with a beer for a total of $10! I couldn't make myself give up a Mexican meal for a hot dog, so instead opted for the next least expensive item, a $12 quesadilla (no meat, no beer, just cheese, for $12!) .
While we waited for our beer, a lady from one of the massage tables came over to introduce herself and her services. She spoke English and gave her prices in dollars. We asked if she would take pesos and she seemed surprised, asking us, "You have pesos?!". She repeated her prices in pesos and Bruce tried to talk her into a shorter massage. She laughed and told him, no, she just did the two times, for the two prices. Bruce offered a price (in pesos) for a shorter time and after refusing again, I think she realized Bruce was trying to engage her in the traditionally honored method of bargaining. She finally smiled and agreed to his terms; Bruce explaining he would be ready after our food came.
I had time for a quick dip before our food arrived Between the cold beer and the refreshing sea, I was beginning to feel rejuvenated after our long hot walk. When the food arrived, I saw three quesadillas, a small side of beans and one side of quacamole with a cooling garnish of cucumber curls arranged to look like a rose all on my plate! Suddenly the $12 didn't look so bad. When I asked for salsa, the waiter brought three equally delicious salsas: one pico de gallo, one spicy hot red, and one medium green chile.
Now for more tanning and people watching. This year's crowd seemed less obnoxious than the one I observed last year.....except for frat boys high-fiving and chest thumping their greetings as if surprised to see each other. As I closed my eyes and flipped onto my back, I could hear the women next to me chatting about their lives in Oakland. One told a story about being told routinely by the police that the stray bullet she found in her apartment should be reported to the insurance company, but not to the cops as they could do little about it. Erg. I can't imagine that kind of lifestyle! Makes me feel so thankful to be able to enjoy a much simpler life with way less effort.
After my food settled, another cooling dip into the water with more time to dally was nice. The waves are easy here and the ocean floor so gently sloped, that one can jump over the waves without being pounded into the sand as happens at our beach. I celebrated our day, playfully twirling my arms in the foaming sea, diving under some waves and jumping over others. Frequent glances back to the shore told me there was very little current out there, I wasn't drifting sideways and soon I was lost in my play. The only obstacles I had to watch for included the tourists who, having completed their one hour surf lesson the day before, now rented surf boards and on a whim would whip around in front of a broken wave, hop on their bellies on the board and blindly ride the wave in. Although the water was more like my Pacific in Southern California days, the water etiquette certainly was not! I soon learned to stay away from all people with surfboards, even if they were clearly walking out toward the breakers! I did have to wonder why they bothered with lessons and surfboards when they could ride on their bellies on the more manageable boogie boards. Oh! A habitual glance back to get a bearing on our green umbrella and I suddenly felt it was time to get out of the water. Approaching in the shallows near my play spot were five surf instructors in their well-marked matching t-shirts and the annoying frat boys. Yes, they were all doing a surf lesson at the same time, and headed my way! Seemed like a good time to shake the water out of my ears and get back to my chair.
Bruce was on the massage table when I returned and I began timing. That kind woman gave him more than he had bargained for, and honored the price they'd agreed upon! Bruce was happy we had a few pesos left from our (my) extravagant lunches so he could give her a healthy tip.
Our day at Cerritos passed much too quickly and soon it was time to begin our walk homeward. This time we walked along the seashore, having the ocean breeze cool our sweaty brows and dipping our feet into the shallows near the water's edge. By the time we got back to Pescadero, the bottom of my sundress was drenched in seawater, my back tingled pleasantly and my feet were happy in warm gooshy sand. I didn't even mind knowing I'd have to wear a shirt during tomorrow's beach session. We arrived at our casita in time to enjoy a margarita and the sunset from Bobbi's palapa before heading in for a light dinner of homemade chicken tortilla soup. Before I knew it, we were turning out the lights on yet another beautiful Baja day.
This year I brought along a little comfy sun dress which seems to make a perfect bathing suit cover-up for a woman of my age and modesty level. I would at least look like I belonged at Cerritos this year! In years past we arrived all hot and sweaty looking like a couple of aging hippie hikers from Montana in zip-away shorts, light-weight traveling shirts and empty water bottles. Besides getting to enjoy a much easier swimming beach, we love the frosty cold beers they serve. This morning we took the dusty dirt road roughly paralleling the shoreline through gringo neighborhoods and Mexican farmlands. When we can look down from the hilltop and see the bell tower of the resort, we know we are almost there. A naturally cool large stone circular stairway with enclosing stone walls takes guests from the resort down to the beach, land of lounge chairs, massage tables, surf and boogie board rentals, bar, and restaurant. The only way we can get from the road down to the beach is via the staircase, but no one seems to mind, and no one else seems to ever use it! As soon as we make our way to two empty lounge chairs, a Mexican waiter appears asking (in English) if we would like an umbrella. I explained that my husband wanted shade and I wanted more sun. With a smile and a nod he hurried off to retrieve an umbrella and with no need for minor adjustment, placed it in the sand just right so it gave us the desired shady/sunny outcome. I ordered a couple of beers and a menu...it was nearly lunchtime. Bruce had time to dip into the water before the waiter returned a third time, now with a small bucket filled with ice and two beers. How perfect! Even a slow sipping sun worshipper like me would have a beer that was cold right down to the final drop! The menus showed limited and over-priced items, all catering to gringo tastes, all prices in US dollars! Bruce ordered $5 hot dog because it came with a beer for a total of $10! I couldn't make myself give up a Mexican meal for a hot dog, so instead opted for the next least expensive item, a $12 quesadilla (no meat, no beer, just cheese, for $12!) .
While we waited for our beer, a lady from one of the massage tables came over to introduce herself and her services. She spoke English and gave her prices in dollars. We asked if she would take pesos and she seemed surprised, asking us, "You have pesos?!". She repeated her prices in pesos and Bruce tried to talk her into a shorter massage. She laughed and told him, no, she just did the two times, for the two prices. Bruce offered a price (in pesos) for a shorter time and after refusing again, I think she realized Bruce was trying to engage her in the traditionally honored method of bargaining. She finally smiled and agreed to his terms; Bruce explaining he would be ready after our food came.
I had time for a quick dip before our food arrived Between the cold beer and the refreshing sea, I was beginning to feel rejuvenated after our long hot walk. When the food arrived, I saw three quesadillas, a small side of beans and one side of quacamole with a cooling garnish of cucumber curls arranged to look like a rose all on my plate! Suddenly the $12 didn't look so bad. When I asked for salsa, the waiter brought three equally delicious salsas: one pico de gallo, one spicy hot red, and one medium green chile.
Now for more tanning and people watching. This year's crowd seemed less obnoxious than the one I observed last year.....except for frat boys high-fiving and chest thumping their greetings as if surprised to see each other. As I closed my eyes and flipped onto my back, I could hear the women next to me chatting about their lives in Oakland. One told a story about being told routinely by the police that the stray bullet she found in her apartment should be reported to the insurance company, but not to the cops as they could do little about it. Erg. I can't imagine that kind of lifestyle! Makes me feel so thankful to be able to enjoy a much simpler life with way less effort.
After my food settled, another cooling dip into the water with more time to dally was nice. The waves are easy here and the ocean floor so gently sloped, that one can jump over the waves without being pounded into the sand as happens at our beach. I celebrated our day, playfully twirling my arms in the foaming sea, diving under some waves and jumping over others. Frequent glances back to the shore told me there was very little current out there, I wasn't drifting sideways and soon I was lost in my play. The only obstacles I had to watch for included the tourists who, having completed their one hour surf lesson the day before, now rented surf boards and on a whim would whip around in front of a broken wave, hop on their bellies on the board and blindly ride the wave in. Although the water was more like my Pacific in Southern California days, the water etiquette certainly was not! I soon learned to stay away from all people with surfboards, even if they were clearly walking out toward the breakers! I did have to wonder why they bothered with lessons and surfboards when they could ride on their bellies on the more manageable boogie boards. Oh! A habitual glance back to get a bearing on our green umbrella and I suddenly felt it was time to get out of the water. Approaching in the shallows near my play spot were five surf instructors in their well-marked matching t-shirts and the annoying frat boys. Yes, they were all doing a surf lesson at the same time, and headed my way! Seemed like a good time to shake the water out of my ears and get back to my chair.
Bruce was on the massage table when I returned and I began timing. That kind woman gave him more than he had bargained for, and honored the price they'd agreed upon! Bruce was happy we had a few pesos left from our (my) extravagant lunches so he could give her a healthy tip.
Our day at Cerritos passed much too quickly and soon it was time to begin our walk homeward. This time we walked along the seashore, having the ocean breeze cool our sweaty brows and dipping our feet into the shallows near the water's edge. By the time we got back to Pescadero, the bottom of my sundress was drenched in seawater, my back tingled pleasantly and my feet were happy in warm gooshy sand. I didn't even mind knowing I'd have to wear a shirt during tomorrow's beach session. We arrived at our casita in time to enjoy a margarita and the sunset from Bobbi's palapa before heading in for a light dinner of homemade chicken tortilla soup. Before I knew it, we were turning out the lights on yet another beautiful Baja day.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Careful Beach Days
Oh the sun and surf are glorious! We are just in from the beach, eyes still stingy from saltwater wash, but pleasantly tired and thinking I hear that ice cold Tecate in the fridge calling my name....ahhhh....yep, that's just what that beer was saying. With a fresh slice of lime, it's the perfect saltwater antidote.
Word amongst the resident surfers is that the hurricane changed the surf point a bit, moving it southward, but that it is still good surfing. We have been cautiously studying the waves as they pound into shore, noting that even the surfers sometimes have to work to come safely ashore. Our first day's swim was merely a quick dip out beyond where we could touch and then a quick trip back in. We found we do have to time the shoreward movement to coordinate with the waves, as the undertow is pretty strong and neither of us is a strong swimmer. The sand under the breakers drops steeply toward the ocean, making the waves break close to shore and swimmers find themselves soon in over their heads. The second day we stayed in a little longer, and the third, etc, etc, until today, when it changed again: the ocean bottom not as steep today, making the waves break further away and with much more force. Not quite the predictable, gently sloped ocean floor where I spent my teen-aged years in southern California. (But then, again, my body is not quite the vigorous one which I took for granted in those days, either.)
The sun here seems to shine brighter, longer and more intensely than back home. Although we smear 30 weight sunblock over every exposed piece of skin, about an hour and a half on the beach is about as much as our winterized skins can take at this point. I look forward to the time we can spend entire days out there without fear of burning!
As we spend time on the beach and in the neighborhood, we are beginning to see old acquaintances. Dr. Robert has a place with rentals just down the beach. We watched the SuperBowl with him last year in a bar/restaurant that was taken by the hurricane. He told us how the roofs on all three of his buildings were blown off. He told us his third trampoline was gone. He laughs as he tells us it is out in the sea making its way back to where it came from...China! He has had all his roofs rebuilt and is back in business renting out rooms.
Last year I was envious of a family of surfers with a sweet camping spot just down the beach from us. They had a huge palapa, with running water, and camped out underneath it within easy view of the ocean. What a life! Further back on the property stands a more substantial building, a small secure, circular cement structure. I imagine small bathroom, shower and kitchen within. This year not only is there no sign of the surfing family, but few signs of recent habitation. While the cement structure and small homemade cargo trailer remain intact on the property, the palapa lies broken on the ground like an old mushroom. Sad to see. Wonder where they are this year? And I wonder if their little blonde boy is approaching other waves in another part of the world with the same confidence and skill.
Today as I came near the end of my run, Gary's handyman and our old "amigo" from Gary days, Lupe, stopped alongside the road, sharing his joy and glee over our return! He is still driving Gary's old car, left to him, from one Mexican citizen (Tata Gary) to another. I can't believe it is still running!
Makes me feel like we are home when I see people like Lupe and Dr. Robert after nearly a year's absence. And home always feels good.
Friday, February 6, 2015
Mexican Roads and Rentals
The connection with the reservation Bruce had made online from home went smoothly, no hidden prices attached and friendly, efficient fellows set us up with the car. It was the riding/driving that was a bit bizarre.
When Bruce drives, I am normally content to sit passenger and enjoy the scenery, maybe help a bit with directions, but usually I'm not at all inclined to "drive from the passenger seat.". This experience, however, was different. The Mexican drivers all go like quicksilver, darting in and out of little side streets, bouncing over potholes and speed bumps with no need for brakes. That was not Bruce's style. I felt it was going to take both of us to keep track of other drivers, pay attention to which roads we were on, and navigate potholes and other hazards. Even in the USA, we have only rented a car a few times, so we both feel pretty intimidated about not putting a single scratch or new squeak on the vehicle. Bruce got the hang of managing the car by the time we reached the end of the toll road from the airport. After that, it was not only the resident drivers to contend with, but also other tourists like ourselves, many of them in the Cabo frenzied rush to the next good time. The guys at the rental place advised us to shop at Walmart because Soriana would be packed. All the Mexicans have the day off and that is where they shop. As we watched the traffic flow and avoided obstacles, we also looked for the Walmart. Yep....there is was.....on the other side of the divider right about at the point where we hit some huge bump in the road. Access points to Walmart all seemed to be in the rear view mirror. While the bump sounded horrible, the car kept moving, no parts scraping on others or strange smells coming from under the car. By now, the traffic hemmed us in and we could only go forward. We opted to fight the crowds and avoid Walmart anyway. Oh, and crowded it was! Whole families out loading grocery carts, filling the parking lot, darting between cars. Between the Mexican Muisac and all the voices, it was pretty chaotic inside the store as well. We darted in confusion, trying to remember what we would need and wishing we had made a list. I was starting to feel vaguely like a "Beat the Clock" contestant when we came to the booze aisle. There it was! Our beloved Jimedor at a good price. We filled the cart. And then I spotted a full liter jug of Controy, the Mexican version of margarita ingredient Contreau, for a mere $9 USD! Excited with those finds, we hightailed it to the checkout stand and back to the crowded streets. Happily, we found no new dings in the car and no fresh liquids underneath it.
Once out of Cabo, things calmed down considerably. We saw the gringo crowd bulging out of the only gringo bar in town in Pescadero, all watching the SuperBowl and we opted for a quiet restaurant with Mexican patrons and staff. Enjoyed our first authentic Mexican meal before pointing the car toward our casita and settling in.
The next day we had to return the car. While Bruce recovered from the stress of driving the day before, I slipped down to the beach at dawn, surprised at the changes wrought by the hurricane. I didn't stay long and when I returned, Bruce was ready to roll. We made the mistake of traveling a road we were less familar with. Here too were hurricane-caused changes. Gone were the simple bumps and occasional rock. Instead, we found evidence of the amount of water that must have rolled down these roads after the hurricane. Bruce had to straddle what had been the water's pathways, not knowing if he would be able to cross it at the end, or simply find more water paths in the road. It was a relief to get to the highway in Pescadero.
Our first order of business was to buy fresh fruits and vegies from Fidel. We literally loaded three full armloads of goodies into the rental: ripe red tomatoes, beautifully firm poblano peppers, jalapeños, serranos, red bells, cauliflower, broccoli. Avocados and tangerines that did not look so pretty from the outside, but our experience last year taught not to be deceived. Fidel's avocados are the tastiest. And of course, bags and bags of grapefruit and limes to squeeze into drinks of Jimedor and Controy. And the final bill was under $20 USD. Then we gave a little Montana keychain with picture of a bear to Fidel. It was so dear the way he paused in his busy street side business to study it before holding it up to his heart and sincerely thanking us. What a sweetheart!
After unloading all those goodies back at our casita, it was time to make our way to Todos Santos. Along the way we looked for the hidden beach of my dreams, but only found roads scurrying into the desert promising to be worse than the one we took from our casita. We decided to head right to the rental car drop off spot.
Driving the Transpeninsular Highway is a much more familar experience. Other than converting miles to kilometers, wondering if the speedometer on the car was in kilos or miles and avoiding the no-brakes Mexican drivers, it was relatively simple. By the time we got to Todos Santos, Bruce had recovered his spirit of adventure and suggested we try to find Elizabeth, the daughter of Livingston friend. Uh, oh. We soon learned that Todos Santos took a bigger hit from the storm than did Pescadero. Hurricane winds battered this town for 10 hours. Huge gullies, more appropriately described as canals, carved a large wide ditch paralleling the main road through Todos Santos. After a first turn leading us to the abyss, and a second which helped us understand its length, and three forays onto unmarked one-way streets, we went back to the plan of simply returning the rental ASAP.
Happily, the rental car agent found no evidence of our big bump and declared all was in order. I offered to buy Bruce a celebatory margarita and he agreed to a beer, saying the bar-made margaritas in "tourist-ville" promised to be a "light pour." I was game to see what was served up. We and the people across from us there at the bar watched the bartendress pour m a really nice margarita. The rather "heavy pour" inspired comments from our bar-mates, who turned out to be from Libby, MT! Needless to say, I later enjoyed our 20min wait in the park across from the bus station, and we were both very relieved to "leave the driving" to the Aguila bus driver!
When Bruce drives, I am normally content to sit passenger and enjoy the scenery, maybe help a bit with directions, but usually I'm not at all inclined to "drive from the passenger seat.". This experience, however, was different. The Mexican drivers all go like quicksilver, darting in and out of little side streets, bouncing over potholes and speed bumps with no need for brakes. That was not Bruce's style. I felt it was going to take both of us to keep track of other drivers, pay attention to which roads we were on, and navigate potholes and other hazards. Even in the USA, we have only rented a car a few times, so we both feel pretty intimidated about not putting a single scratch or new squeak on the vehicle. Bruce got the hang of managing the car by the time we reached the end of the toll road from the airport. After that, it was not only the resident drivers to contend with, but also other tourists like ourselves, many of them in the Cabo frenzied rush to the next good time. The guys at the rental place advised us to shop at Walmart because Soriana would be packed. All the Mexicans have the day off and that is where they shop. As we watched the traffic flow and avoided obstacles, we also looked for the Walmart. Yep....there is was.....on the other side of the divider right about at the point where we hit some huge bump in the road. Access points to Walmart all seemed to be in the rear view mirror. While the bump sounded horrible, the car kept moving, no parts scraping on others or strange smells coming from under the car. By now, the traffic hemmed us in and we could only go forward. We opted to fight the crowds and avoid Walmart anyway. Oh, and crowded it was! Whole families out loading grocery carts, filling the parking lot, darting between cars. Between the Mexican Muisac and all the voices, it was pretty chaotic inside the store as well. We darted in confusion, trying to remember what we would need and wishing we had made a list. I was starting to feel vaguely like a "Beat the Clock" contestant when we came to the booze aisle. There it was! Our beloved Jimedor at a good price. We filled the cart. And then I spotted a full liter jug of Controy, the Mexican version of margarita ingredient Contreau, for a mere $9 USD! Excited with those finds, we hightailed it to the checkout stand and back to the crowded streets. Happily, we found no new dings in the car and no fresh liquids underneath it.
Once out of Cabo, things calmed down considerably. We saw the gringo crowd bulging out of the only gringo bar in town in Pescadero, all watching the SuperBowl and we opted for a quiet restaurant with Mexican patrons and staff. Enjoyed our first authentic Mexican meal before pointing the car toward our casita and settling in.
The next day we had to return the car. While Bruce recovered from the stress of driving the day before, I slipped down to the beach at dawn, surprised at the changes wrought by the hurricane. I didn't stay long and when I returned, Bruce was ready to roll. We made the mistake of traveling a road we were less familar with. Here too were hurricane-caused changes. Gone were the simple bumps and occasional rock. Instead, we found evidence of the amount of water that must have rolled down these roads after the hurricane. Bruce had to straddle what had been the water's pathways, not knowing if he would be able to cross it at the end, or simply find more water paths in the road. It was a relief to get to the highway in Pescadero.
Our first order of business was to buy fresh fruits and vegies from Fidel. We literally loaded three full armloads of goodies into the rental: ripe red tomatoes, beautifully firm poblano peppers, jalapeños, serranos, red bells, cauliflower, broccoli. Avocados and tangerines that did not look so pretty from the outside, but our experience last year taught not to be deceived. Fidel's avocados are the tastiest. And of course, bags and bags of grapefruit and limes to squeeze into drinks of Jimedor and Controy. And the final bill was under $20 USD. Then we gave a little Montana keychain with picture of a bear to Fidel. It was so dear the way he paused in his busy street side business to study it before holding it up to his heart and sincerely thanking us. What a sweetheart!
After unloading all those goodies back at our casita, it was time to make our way to Todos Santos. Along the way we looked for the hidden beach of my dreams, but only found roads scurrying into the desert promising to be worse than the one we took from our casita. We decided to head right to the rental car drop off spot.
Driving the Transpeninsular Highway is a much more familar experience. Other than converting miles to kilometers, wondering if the speedometer on the car was in kilos or miles and avoiding the no-brakes Mexican drivers, it was relatively simple. By the time we got to Todos Santos, Bruce had recovered his spirit of adventure and suggested we try to find Elizabeth, the daughter of Livingston friend. Uh, oh. We soon learned that Todos Santos took a bigger hit from the storm than did Pescadero. Hurricane winds battered this town for 10 hours. Huge gullies, more appropriately described as canals, carved a large wide ditch paralleling the main road through Todos Santos. After a first turn leading us to the abyss, and a second which helped us understand its length, and three forays onto unmarked one-way streets, we went back to the plan of simply returning the rental ASAP.
Happily, the rental car agent found no evidence of our big bump and declared all was in order. I offered to buy Bruce a celebatory margarita and he agreed to a beer, saying the bar-made margaritas in "tourist-ville" promised to be a "light pour." I was game to see what was served up. We and the people across from us there at the bar watched the bartendress pour m a really nice margarita. The rather "heavy pour" inspired comments from our bar-mates, who turned out to be from Libby, MT! Needless to say, I later enjoyed our 20min wait in the park across from the bus station, and we were both very relieved to "leave the driving" to the Aguila bus driver!
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Flyways and Custom Ways
ntrying
Flyways and Custom Agents
Our plane took off into skies of scattered clouds at dawn on SuperBowl Sunday. The southeastward flight to Salt Lake City prolonged our view of the dappled pink dawn from the sunny top side. Producing long shadows, the sun illuminated hazy stripes in the fluffy sky. Our route turned more southerly through Colorado and there in the early morning highlights, we saw "the backbone of the world" as the tallest mountain peaks of the Continental Divide lit up in sharp white relief on mountain blue bases. It was a beautiful flight.
From Salt Lake City south, we were in midday sun, so nothing so spectacular showed up outside my window. Instead, I battled sleepy eyes, just tasting that sweetness of approaching sleep before my neck stretched into one of those awkward plane poses popping my eyes open again. The flight seemed to go on and on until finally the flight attendants brought us forms to play with and puzzle over. Given the difficulty a plane load of adults was having in reading and following instructions, I became thankful once again that I had spent my working days with teenagers rather than with my older set of plane-mates! And yes, I had just as many questions as the rest of them. There was one little statement there, that troubled me.......... way on the backside of the form......not quite away from anything else on the form.......was a statement that explained how many grams of tobacco each person could legally bring in. Those of you who remember our "adventure" at customs last year will understand my nervousness, despite Bruce's reassurances that he had brought fewer ounces than our limit. The fellow sitting behind us must have heard me asking the flight attendant if she knew the conversion rate for ounces to grams as he, the guy in the seat behind us. offered to run his hand-held electronic converter, telling me how many grams are in 12 ounces. This time I would be ready for the customs agents.
Pretty soon we could see the ocean below our wings, and then , oh look! Isn't that the island where we went fishing with Vince and Cindy last year? And that must be Cabo Pulmo! And look how huge the arroyos are after the hurricane! And how green the desert seems! We would be landing shortly.
We managed to clear immigration just fine foolish Mexicans let just anyone in...even known fruit-and-tobacco smugglers....then we got my bag and headed to the customs agent men. One of them took our forms and immediately turned to the back of the form and asked us how much tobacco we had. After Bruce smugly told him we only had 12 ounces, the agent looked a little baffled. Just as he brought the walklie- talkie to his lips, I blurted out, "373 grams!"
" Ok, " he said, sliding his eyes over my face......now, just push this button here......." And he pointed to a single red button on the kiosk. I obediently pushed it and followed his gaze to the two little signs above the button. One sign pointed to the plexiglass cages where Bruce disappeared last year to pay his fine and keep the tobacco he purchased in the US . Yes, it was while he was in that plexiglass cage that I fell prey to the friendly looking "fruit dog" last year and was immediately "shaken down" as a known banana-smuggler. The other sign had an arrowing pointing to the big sliding door that led to the marketeering condo salesmen with those dreamy Hispanic eyes that always get me. I felt a bit like I was in the middle of a short story entitled "The Lady or The Tiger?" and was somewhat relieved to see the arrow towards the salesmen light up. ( I did wonder if I had just passed some sort of funky lie detector test or if it was merely a game of chance and I got lucky. ) At any rate, we were able to make it through the salesmen gauntlet without being taken hostage by the condo guys and and quickly passed into the welcoming Baja warmth. Our new adventure had begun.
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