The Baja Peninsula which reaches south from California USA,
is a free zone, meaning Canadians and US citizens can travel freely without
regular Mexican immigration documents, either personal or automotive. This is
unsettling for people sensitized by border politics.
When we cross into Mexico at Nogales, there is a 40 mile drive to the Mexican Immigration Post, so we were not surprised in Tijuana when we saw no signs of Border Officialdom.
We drove expectantly along a coast in development mode. Huge new hotels in various stages of completion, were going up for whom? We wondered about Latinos in the South Western US.
Ensanada was clearly catering more to Latinos than your average Nortes. The French Restaurant where we went for a drink, had a full portrait of Louis XIV, flags of the provinces, familiar French pastries - napoleons and éclairs. Even the little tourist shops had elegant capes, not the standard shorts and bikinis of western vacation shopping.
When it came to immigration, the Port officials at Ensenada willingly stamped our passports and gave us our LMM forms, but shook their heads over the car. Some said we should go back to Tijuana, others said we could get our sticker in La Paz. That was the idea we liked best, so we spent a comfortable night in Ensenada and set off down the Baja the next day.
How deceiving maps can be. Our drive equals the distance from John O’Groats to Landsend. Two days of 7 hours of driving got us to La Paz. Cabo San Lucas is still another 3 hours away. Nothing prepared us for what we would see.
On a single lane highway we have driven more unnamed spectacular mountain passes than I can count, seen a look-alike microcosm of the scenery of Africa: the Cape mountains and valleys, with arable farmland growing Dricoll’s strawberries, beans, cilantro, and who-knows-what-else in great swaths of greenhouses; on the more arid slopes, vineyards; after San Quintin the landscape toughened into Karoo-like range for sheep and goats. After this we could have been in the South Eastern Hills of Botswana with rocky koppies dotted with aloes. Then flat topped mesas in the 25,000 square kilometer Reserva de la Biofera El Vizcainco, Latin America’s single largest protected area. We saw Boojum trees in abundance as well as cactus of all kinds, the most obvious being the candelabra.
Change again, to balancing rocks, rocks everywhere: mountains of rocks without a scrap of soil or sand to hold them together, rocks of every size and shape, scattered as far as the eye could see. As we moved on the boulders became smaller, and interspersed with sand and scrub. The hills had exposures of red rock, like Morocco on the edge of the Sahara. As we approached our night stop in Guerrero Negro, we drove through flat desert with only a skiff of vegetation.
Grey Whales luring tourists, and salt are the mainstays of this town. We were glad to fill our gas tank. Gas stations are rare in the centre of this peninsular.
The next day as we drove across the desert which soon blossomed with cacti again, we had no idea how much the elevation was changing. The road began to twist and turn and suddenly we caught a glimpse the Sea of Cortez, like a gem far below us. What a pass! Down and down we went, curve after hairpin bend, to the old copper mining town of Rosalia, where the reverb furnace, locomotive and mine machinery, sit as relics in the centre of this quaint town which hugs the coast. The mine closed in the 1950s and a Canadian mining company is currently trying to reopen it.
The drive for the next four hours was pass after pass, bay after sandy bay beside an azure sea. Off shore islands and the peninsular cradling Conception Bay, resulted in views that outshone anything we saw in Oregon or California, which by no means belittles their coast’s majesty. You will have to take my word for it. Driving was too intense for photography and there was simply nowhere to stop.
The drivers in the Baja ignore speed limits, though courtesy and safety are paramount. In the mélange of swanky BMWs, farmers’ pickups over laden with oranges, semi trailers as high as houses, long distance buses, local beat-up buses, smart SUVs, old Toyotas belching oil, and giant gleaming half-ton trucks cruising by at 130 KMH, I never once felt either scared or agitated. Driving here is more akin to dance than to danger which makes driving these varied roads so much more fun than multi-lane Interstates.
The Paz is east facing and a low-key, smaller version of Mazatlan, with a malecon, fishing boats and few multi-storied hotels. While Mazatlan’s main industry is fishing, La Paz has an oil refinery and its port is for the ferries which go to Guaymas, Topolopampo and Mazatlan on the east coast of the Sea of Cortez. The port and refinery are well hidden, south of the city.
When we cross into Mexico at Nogales, there is a 40 mile drive to the Mexican Immigration Post, so we were not surprised in Tijuana when we saw no signs of Border Officialdom.
We drove expectantly along a coast in development mode. Huge new hotels in various stages of completion, were going up for whom? We wondered about Latinos in the South Western US.
Ensanada was clearly catering more to Latinos than your average Nortes. The French Restaurant where we went for a drink, had a full portrait of Louis XIV, flags of the provinces, familiar French pastries - napoleons and éclairs. Even the little tourist shops had elegant capes, not the standard shorts and bikinis of western vacation shopping.
When it came to immigration, the Port officials at Ensenada willingly stamped our passports and gave us our LMM forms, but shook their heads over the car. Some said we should go back to Tijuana, others said we could get our sticker in La Paz. That was the idea we liked best, so we spent a comfortable night in Ensenada and set off down the Baja the next day.
How deceiving maps can be. Our drive equals the distance from John O’Groats to Landsend. Two days of 7 hours of driving got us to La Paz. Cabo San Lucas is still another 3 hours away. Nothing prepared us for what we would see.
On a single lane highway we have driven more unnamed spectacular mountain passes than I can count, seen a look-alike microcosm of the scenery of Africa: the Cape mountains and valleys, with arable farmland growing Dricoll’s strawberries, beans, cilantro, and who-knows-what-else in great swaths of greenhouses; on the more arid slopes, vineyards; after San Quintin the landscape toughened into Karoo-like range for sheep and goats. After this we could have been in the South Eastern Hills of Botswana with rocky koppies dotted with aloes. Then flat topped mesas in the 25,000 square kilometer Reserva de la Biofera El Vizcainco, Latin America’s single largest protected area. We saw Boojum trees in abundance as well as cactus of all kinds, the most obvious being the candelabra.
Change again, to balancing rocks, rocks everywhere: mountains of rocks without a scrap of soil or sand to hold them together, rocks of every size and shape, scattered as far as the eye could see. As we moved on the boulders became smaller, and interspersed with sand and scrub. The hills had exposures of red rock, like Morocco on the edge of the Sahara. As we approached our night stop in Guerrero Negro, we drove through flat desert with only a skiff of vegetation.
Grey Whales luring tourists, and salt are the mainstays of this town. We were glad to fill our gas tank. Gas stations are rare in the centre of this peninsular.
The next day as we drove across the desert which soon blossomed with cacti again, we had no idea how much the elevation was changing. The road began to twist and turn and suddenly we caught a glimpse the Sea of Cortez, like a gem far below us. What a pass! Down and down we went, curve after hairpin bend, to the old copper mining town of Rosalia, where the reverb furnace, locomotive and mine machinery, sit as relics in the centre of this quaint town which hugs the coast. The mine closed in the 1950s and a Canadian mining company is currently trying to reopen it.
The drive for the next four hours was pass after pass, bay after sandy bay beside an azure sea. Off shore islands and the peninsular cradling Conception Bay, resulted in views that outshone anything we saw in Oregon or California, which by no means belittles their coast’s majesty. You will have to take my word for it. Driving was too intense for photography and there was simply nowhere to stop.
The drivers in the Baja ignore speed limits, though courtesy and safety are paramount. In the mélange of swanky BMWs, farmers’ pickups over laden with oranges, semi trailers as high as houses, long distance buses, local beat-up buses, smart SUVs, old Toyotas belching oil, and giant gleaming half-ton trucks cruising by at 130 KMH, I never once felt either scared or agitated. Driving here is more akin to dance than to danger which makes driving these varied roads so much more fun than multi-lane Interstates.
The Paz is east facing and a low-key, smaller version of Mazatlan, with a malecon, fishing boats and few multi-storied hotels. While Mazatlan’s main industry is fishing, La Paz has an oil refinery and its port is for the ferries which go to Guaymas, Topolopampo and Mazatlan on the east coast of the Sea of Cortez. The port and refinery are well hidden, south of the city.
The ferry schedule had changed from what was posted on the
internet, so we had another day to enjoy this part of the Baja. Buz was relieved to sort out the car’s
immigration requirements.
We drove through more mountains to what is called the Cabo Riviera and stopped for lunch at Los Baries. We saw enough of the sort of tourism that makes our toes curl, to realize we wanted to go no further.
We drove through more mountains to what is called the Cabo Riviera and stopped for lunch at Los Baries. We saw enough of the sort of tourism that makes our toes curl, to realize we wanted to go no further.
The mountains in each area of the Baja are different; their
geology and vegetation varied. The southernmost range reminded me of eastern
Zimbabwe with trees shaped like msasas, having the same grey and white trunk
and branches. Even the colours of the rocks were similar, but the villages were
Mexican. Delightful San Antonio with stalls selling dates, coconut ice,
grapefruits and lemons. Leechie and citrus trees, dripping with fruit, lined
the roadway, while palm trees clustered round the dry river bed below.
The ferry to Topalobampo should have left at 2 pm and arrived at 7 pm, but our departure was delayed for an hour and a half. Families traveling for the school holidays gave us a charmingly intimate view into Mexican life. A free lunch of 3 tortillas, rice, beans and a choice of stew was served for two hours and everyone ate, around 700 of us, from the toddler to card-playing teen, the elegant grandmother to a man who might be a gangster. There was no complaining, no food on the floor, no waste.
The ferry to Topalobampo should have left at 2 pm and arrived at 7 pm, but our departure was delayed for an hour and a half. Families traveling for the school holidays gave us a charmingly intimate view into Mexican life. A free lunch of 3 tortillas, rice, beans and a choice of stew was served for two hours and everyone ate, around 700 of us, from the toddler to card-playing teen, the elegant grandmother to a man who might be a gangster. There was no complaining, no food on the floor, no waste.
At disembarkation only the drivers were allowed to the
vehicles. The passengers, mainly women
with children and elderly parents, were required to line up to exit from the
main deck. It was eerily unsettling
seeing the mostly able-bodied men lining up to go down the stairs, while the
rest of us were herded in another direction, mother’s clutching babies and
older siblings taking care of the younger ones.
We’re back in Mexico,
with all its dichotomies: its love of tradition and passion for novelty; its
strength and fragility; its beauty and tackiness; its grace and its brutality.
