Santa Rosalia

When we got to Santa Rosalia, Siji was still carrying a papaya that she'd purchased in Tecate with her. Though its supple yellow flesh was bruised, it had not bled any juice - in fact, cradled in its nylon shopping bag, we'd come to regard it as a hardy infant. Every day, she'd swear that the papaya's hours on this earth were numbered - yet the days continued to slip away and the large golden fruit remained untouched. I continued to enjoy fresh-squeezed juices, licuados, and fruits in every town, while Siji passed them up - after all, she had her papaya. Again, in this funny little old mining town, she swore the tropical delicacy wasn't long for this world - she'd finish it off in the city plaza before we skipped town. Suuure.

Santa Rosalia was a funny place - and the counterpoint to San Ignacio in many ways. While San Ignacio was sleepy and sprawling, Santa Rosalia was densely packed and bustling. San Ignacio was notable for its cleanliness, while Santa Rosalia's litter-strewn streets made it indistinguishable from many mainland Mexican towns. San Ignacio's sole _lavanderia_ (laundromat) was non-operational, but Santa Rosalia had several to choose from. The only local "industry" San Ignacians boasted was selling the fruit of the date palm. Santa Rosalia's cityscape, however, was dominated by a gigantic copper smelter and its surrounding buildings, erected by a long-gone French company in another age. Though the mine was no longer operational, the sense of industry prevailed. It seemed like merely looking busy was a full-time occupation for many of the locals: people skirted the town in their fuming cars with no particular place to go, held raffles in the plaza for inexpensive appliances (like Black and Decker clothing irons), and pedaled their elotes carts so rapidly that those of us who actually wanted to buy some of the spicy corn kernels barely had the chance. Heartened by the balmy temperatures, I tried to buy _raspados_ (cups of flavored ice) from a kiosk advertising them, but the vendor wouldn't have any of it: it was "too cold", he reasoned. Standing there in my sleeveless t-shirt, I was decidedly mystified, but hey - when in Rome, right?

Santa Rosalia's pace could largely be attributed, undoubtedly, to its ferry connection with Guaymas, in mainland Mexico's state of Sonora. While most Baja towns were lacking in the fresh produce department, SR's farmer's market was teeming with fruits and vegetables that were...well, almost up to par. The busy marina was rumored to be a fine place to hitch a ride on a rich European's yacht - and its waterfront malecon was, too, a fine place for a hungry kitten to set up shop. (I certainly fell for her wiles, running into the mini super to fetch an 11-peso can of tuna.) A path wound up the hillside, taking us to another residential area. We wondered about the cemetary high above the hill. It seemed that one family's driveway would halve the time of our approach, so we asked the young children playing in it for permission. The rank odor of stale death filled the air; we soon realized that the carcasses of both land and sea animals filled the yard: fitting, considering our destination. Perhaps it was best not to ask too many questions. Arriving at the cemetary, filled with plastic flowers and strewn trash, it was hard not to think about our cultural obsession with permanence. Natural flowers would decay, or at least require upkeep - whereas synthetic ones would stay bright and upright for years. I seemed to be in the minority, but I'd much sooner have withered begonias on my final resting place. Descending back into town, where our time was decidedly limited, we sketched out a plan. If the hotel proprietor wouldn't mind babysitting our backpacks in his office a bit longer, I'd explore the mining ruins and Siji would get to work on that papaya. Setting off, she seemed pleased: "It's delicious!" The novelty wore off quickly, however, and by the time I returned her tune had changed. "Did you finish it?", I wondered. "No, I didn't eat very much. It wasn't very good." Still, her effort meant that she finally had license to throw the thing away. It was time to move on to Mulege. I ducked into a hotel doorway and hastily changed into my "hitching clothes" in broad daylight, hoping no one spotted me in my underwear. (They didn't.) Scarcely five vehicles had passed us before one stopped, urging us to hop in the back of their pickup truck. We pulled our windbreakers out, crouched behind our backpacks, and enjoyed the scenery.

San Ignacio

Stepping off the bus in San Ignacio, we wondered if we'd made a mistake: its famed mission was nowhere in view, and the only things in sight were a few tired service buildings and a gigantic whale skeleton. We were encouraged by the sight of two other backpackers, figuring that if we'd made some terrible error then at least we'd have company. The four of us soon spied a sign for the historic town center, though, and veered off in that direction. I'd thought the young French couple an odd pairing, and soon I discovered why: they were siblings, not paramours. We hadn't ventured very far down the road before the arid landscape gave way to thousands of date palms, and then it appeared: a shimmering pond, bisected by the road - an actual oasis in the desert, like I'd only seen in cartoons. You could've easily convinced me that I was in ancient Baghdad rather than present-day Baja.

Scouring the sole street of San Ignacio's "business district" for something warm and vegan to eat, we were invited in for a house tour from Sofia, a Mexican-born Los Angeleno nurse who had recently purchased a vacation home there in her grandmother's hometown and was eager to show it off. She was looking for a "place to relax", she claimed, and she'd certainly picked an ideal location. San Ignacio's pace couldn't have been more languid - even the bees on the roof of the bathroom at Hotel Posada didn't seem to be in a hurry to vacate their hives. The town was so sleepy, in fact, that it begged the question: why all the military patrol trucks circling the town? Much more benign - appreciated, even - were the spirited political campaigners with their megaphones, drumming up support for the would-be leaders of the Mulege municipality.

Granted, there wasn't a ton to _do_ in San Ignacio once you'd had a look at the church (sure, it was purty), but we didn't mind: we were off the bus. Siji decided to celebrate with a cold Tecate, and used her Spanish to sweet-talk some cafe owners into making us beans cooked in vegetable oil. Feeling bold (if not expectant), we even dared to request some vegetables. While the frozen carrots and potatoes we got with our tacos might not have been a foodie's dream, the abuelita with the small booth by the plaza was every bit the locavore: she had date bread, date pie, and date empanadas on the offer, and the German tourists were certainly biting. As for us, we went for the ground scores - finding the perfect date has never been easy, and this was no exception!

San Ignacio was a pretty charming spot, though I couldn't put my finger on it: perhaps it was the fact that after seeing litter carelessly scattered throughout most of the towns along Highway 1, San Ignacians seemed to have a sense of stewardship for their humble little town. Had I known that it would be the most genuine small town I'd come upon in Baja, we might've stayed a day or two longer - but I was glad for the fact that the lion's share of Baja travelers seemed to skip it, and Sofia undoubtedly was as well. Heading out of town after a night's rest, we decided that our stop wouldn't be complete without a paddle around the lake: for around four bucks, we were loaned a dirty old pedal-boat with erratic pedals, non-functioning steering...and two oars. Glamorous, no, but it afforded us a second-to-none view of the spectacularly animated avian life of San Ignacio: graceful winged things (were they herons, or egrets? I'm no Audubon, I'll admit...) swooping, hopping, and gliding as though they _owned_ that lake...and indeed, they did.

I didn't imagine it would be hard to hitch a ride out of town - good riddance, prohibitive bus fares: it's sunny out! - but I didn't know just how easy it would be to special order a lift. After several young man in sports cars had passed, a trusty four-wheel drive vehicle drove past. "It'd be nice to get a ride with a family," I mused. No sooner had I said it than they'd pulled over to the shoulder a hundred feet ahead of us to offer us passage. They didn't have any room, mind you, but they weren't going to let that stop themselves from being hospitable: four of us shared the back seat, our knees and elbows jutting awkwardly into each other's personal space, while the nine-year-old young lady now forced to share the spacious hatchback with two lumpy rucksacks asked if it would be a very long ride. Not terribly so, but an hour and a half for 30-odd miles meant some sinuous roads were in store. Monica, a hip grandma in her early fifties, and her son Juan Carlos (who, she pointed out, was "muy guapo") were happy to show off the Volcanes de Tres Virgenes: they cut a striking figure in the landscape, as did the black volcanic rock they left in their wake. When they dropped us off on the outskirts of Santa Rosalia, per our request - they were headed all the way to Ciudad Constitucion, many hours south, in the new truck they'd just purchased in Ensenada - they gifted us with an abalone crucifix not unlike the ones our juice-stand pal had displayed. That neither of us consider ourselves Christian didn't seem especially relevant: it comforted them to think of us traveling with Jesus watching over us, and we'd allow them that harmless superstition. After their generosity, it was the least we could do.

Tecate > Ensenada > San Ignacio

The several-hour trip to Ensenada reminded me of the dreaded Day 3 of any of the several-dozen cross-country Greyhound jaunts I'd taken in my early twenties: dirt ground into the carpeted seating, floor heaters with wads of gum on them (which I only discovered after I'd decided to toast my toes, natch), and stomach-churning bathroom odor. Thank God it was only a three-hour tour - still, Gilligan wouldn't envy us. Leaving Tecate, we were treated to some dramatic scenery: boulder-strewn fields reminiscent of those I'd seen on New Zealand's Waiheke Island. This was no ecologically pristine paradise, however: ranches filled with sad-eyed cows hugged the highway, broken up by the occasional subdivision advertising luxury condos...with a decidedly unscenic view. Reaching the Pacific, I was surprised to pass a Fox Studios set complete with a pirate ship. Surely, even the most formulaic slop they'd ever turned out would be an improvement on the film we were being subjected to: Sandra Bullock with a bad bleach job portraying the impromptu foster mom of a large, oafish black teenager who'd had some tough breaks - what can I say? I wasn't convinced.

Arriving in Ensenada was anticlimactic. It was nearly dark and the next bus left in a couple hours, so we stuck close to the station (a juice stand across the street hooked me up with a frothy banana-orange licuado while its proprietor showed us some abalone jewelry) and figured we'd be on the southbound six o'clock. Unfortunately, it didn't occur to me that said bus might be full, so I took my sweet time to buy tickets. Big mistake: not only was the 6 pm run full, but so was the 8 o'clock - the next bus with any seats would be leaving at 2 am. We figured we'd do as much wandering as our weary backs - we'd both overpacked - would allow, and somehow ended up at the cop shop while looking for an ATM. Surprisingly, It had everything I needed: a bathroom I didn't have to pay for, warmth, free filtered water, and an affectionate kitten. Why leave?

After many long, chilly hours and some hastily scarfed down granola (and a slightly souring veggie burger from San Diego, alas), we were on an overnight schedule to San Ignacio. Happily, I slept through most of the night, waking at 8 am to a horribly overdubbed animated film with an anthropomorphized bear subjecting park rangers and his deer-ly beloved best buddy to his wacky hijinx. It came as welcome comic relief, then, when the next flick featured Woody Allen inflicting his neuroses on the world (and his world always includes an attractive young lady forty years his junior) _en espanol_. I cursed myself for having packed my earplugs away in a bag beneath the bus...well, at least the bathroom was clean. I peeled back the dark curtains periodically, rarely seeing little more dramatic than cacti on gently rolling hills, and waited for the rain to stop falling. It took its sweet time - but just as the weather forecast had predicted, the border between the states of Baja Calfornia Norte and Sur was, indeed, like a magical veil which no precipitation dared transcend. We'd have our sunny south yet.

Borderline

Siji and I (st)rolled out of our swank digs in San Diego's Kensington neighborhood, where we'd stayed with an au pair (from the Couchsurfing website) and her German ex-boyfriend in an in-law cottage. It was spitting rain, and we had several errands to tackle before we caught the last run of the day (via several other buses and trolleys) from the El Cajon transit center to the Mexican border town of Tecate.

Tecate certainly trumped the only other Mexican border town I've ever had occasion to pass through: Tijuana, where mournful-looking horses painted to resemble zebras roamed the tourist zone of Avenida de Revolucion. Clearing customs was a non-issue: we strolled right by, with neither a check nor questions - a privilege obviously reserved for people coming from the US side, but a pleasant occasion nonetheless. We quickly spotted the hotel where Siji had stayed on her last journey through town, the Hotel Paraiso, whose name couldn't have been more ironic: "It looks like a prison," quipped Siji. Sure, but at 240 pesos ($20 USD) a night for a room sans TV, what of it? There was hot water which blasted out of the showerhead at full pressure (something I lack at home), filtered drinking water in the lobby, and clean bedding. Nevermind the mildewed ceiling - we weren't moving in, right?

We saw what we could of Tecate-by-night. Wild dogs roamed the streets, picking at plastic garbage bags with their teeth. Dentists were everywhere, their neons signs falsely advertising "ABIERTO" (or, just as often, "OPEN" - most of their patients are likely Americans) well after dark. A paleteria (why are they always affiliated with Michoacan and named thusly, anyway?) swore up and down that my guava popsicle was _agua_ rather than _leche_ based, and charged me accordingly, but a bathroom visit later that night told the conclusive truth: even my impassioned claims of a vicious milk allergy (a convenient way of characterizing veganism in places where the concept is just too out-there) had fallen on deaf ears.

We wandered the aisles of the Calimax grocery store, marveling at the low cost of oranges (the cute hipster-by-local-standards guy in the dated Palestinian scarf didn't escape my attention, either - I dubbed him the Tecate Hottie, which rhymes if you mangle it appropriately), and checked out the life-sized nativity scene in the town center. Every guidebook describes the plaza as the epicenter of Tecate nightlife, but rain has a way of changing the score. We weren't immune to the desire to be warm and dry, and eventually found ourselves at an internet cafe where a young girl, after periodically interacting with us (or, more accurately, the small plastic pig I had in my bag) for an hour, kissed Siji goodbye on her cheek before leaving. Her mother scolded her - not because she had kissed a stranger, but because she hadn't obliged me as well. "Besitos para mi?", I pouted, and she ran over and dutifully planted a peck on my right cheek. (At that, my biological clock ticked so forcefully that my chest threatened to burst open.)

The next morning, while Siji slept, I ventured out into the sheets of rain to see what else the town held in store. There was delicious fresh-squeezed juice at Jugo de Casita, roasted piñones at the "seed and cereal store", surprisingly tasty and healthy vegan date cookies, cheaply stylish "Panam" brand sneakers (in most any color combination you could want) at every shoe shop in town, and - of course - the Tecate beer factory, whose sign loomed over its namesake city. While I'm sure their beer garden might prove inviting on a finer day - even for a teetotaler like myself - it didn't exactly beckon that morning. I made an obligatory visit to the office to confirm that one did indeed need an appointment for a tour, and then - like a frog deftly navigating his way across a pond with sparsely-scattered lily pads - made my way back to the hotel, catapulting myself over two-foot-deep roadside puddles. We may have been less than a kilometer from the border, but when it came to municipal drainage the difference couldn't have been more extreme.

Clearly, it was time to reassess our plans for conquering the peninsula. I'd had some romantic notions about heading south along the Sea of Cortez, skipping Highway 1 in favor of a number of small dirt roads. It was a nice idea, but the monsoon-like conditions caused us to reconsider our options. Having checked the regional weather forecast the prior night, I hauled out my highway map, broke the news ("the only bus of the day heading to Ensenada leaves at 1:30 pm" - our hotel would kick us out at 1, conveniently), and stated my case: I was in favor of getting as far south as possible as quickly as we could. The bus certainly wasn't cheap, however. I expected that the prices quoted in my five-year-old guidebook would be a bit low, but they'd _doubled_, making last-minute Greyhound tickets seem like a comparative bargain. Knowing the minimum wage in Mexico, I was puzzled: how could locals possibly afford intercity bus travel? We weren't locals, though, and we knew that a pricey overland slog to sunnier parts was a rock-solid investment. Like Lyle Lovett, we too would take the Road to Ensenada.