Untitled Document

Baja Fruit Flies
Two of the post-pubescent Federales approached the car, motioning with their guns for me to pull to the left. As I checked the rear and side mirrors, I noticed there were no other cars, either stopped or entering the checkpoint. A pile of sandbags to my right housed the usual youngster with a machine gun. When I drove along side the stone hut, two men wearing masks appeared in the doorway. I couldn’t discern if what they held in their hands were guns or not. As my adrenalin started to pump, I considered putting the gas pedal to the floor and taking my chances on being shot. I had driven over 500 miles down the Baja without incident; being robbed and perhaps killed, was not on my agenda.
One of the guards leaned toward me asking that I open the trunk. My foot was still tickllng the gas pedal when I queried why I had bcen stopped. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the two masked men moving toward the car.

“Señora, we must check your car for contraband and then spray it.” Spray it

seemed a hellava way to describe riddling my car with bullets. “Spray it for what,” I demanded to know. “Fruit flies, Señora.” Suddenly the masked men began priming their five-gallon spray cans, nozzles skyward in readiness. How naive I had been to think I couid drive my new red, convertible sports car down the Baja without incident.
Departing from Rosarito Beach at 8 a.m., I’d been told I could reach Guerrero Negro for whale watching within five to six hours. No one had prepared me for the hairpin turns and sheer majesty of the Sierra Madres. With two hands gripping the steering wheel, I pushed the Spyder a little faster around each new set of curves. The three-foot guard rail seemed more a sick joke than a safety aid as the canyon floor lie thousands of feet below. There wasn’t any margin for error. Sheer walls of rock rose on the right. There were no shoulders and the frequent signs announcing falling rock heightened the thrill.
Multitudes of scraggly cactus and a few stretches of level road announced our entrance to the High Plains. The “Big Guy” must have enjoyed creating this wonderland of cactus and bizarre rock formations. Behemoth round rocks, scoops of ice cream, some hollowed by erosion, littered the landscape. As I passed these granite sundaes, I fantasized a scene from the “High Plains Drifter.” “Hey Clint.” “Yeah?” “Ya hear ‘em?” “Yeah.” “Wanna kill ‘em?” “Yeah.” “Wanna kill ‘em whcn they come past the rocks?”
“Yeah.” Clint?” “Yeah.” “Which rocks?” Night dropped down like a broken window shade. After driving nine hours, the cattle standing in the road became frightenlng aberrations of floating glowing eyes. I kept eyeing the horizon for lights, extra-terrestrial and otherwise. I should have heeded the warning not to drive on the High Plains at night.
Having paid cighty pesos to ride ten kilometers across salt flats in a broken down Jeep, I felt my enthusiasm waning. The whales probably weren’t too excited about my coming neither.
North of the border, five giant hotels, twenty restaurants and a McDonalds would have circled this inlet. We retrieved our life jackets from the only building on the beach, a small wooden snack. As I stood at the water’s edge waitlng for them to bring the small fishing boats to us, our guide instructed us to take off our shoes, roll up our pant legs and wade out to the boats. Hey, this would never happen at Disney!
There must be an art to whale watching which I wasn’t informed of. I saw noses, mid-sections, tails and water spouts. OK, the joke is on me. This is a multi-sectioned, mechanical mock-up they drag through the water, right? I guess the French family, who took rolls of film of body parts, intend to tape them together before they show their friends. After sweeping back and forth across the inlet for two bours, our guide turned the boat to shore. It was late March and the whales had begun their migration north. We were fortunate to have glimpsed the procrastinators.
Being pulled over by the Federales is not a new experience, but being confronted by the «Bug Squad” as I tried to leave Guerrero Negro was. The masked exterminators inforined me I had to pay them ten pesos. What a bargain. For ten pesos I could have the paint job on my car destroyed by insecticides. I tried to reassure them that the only fruit I had in my car was a single Georgia peach, my passenger. Mordida is such a wonderful Mexican tradition. When I asked if they would consider NOT spraying the car for twenty pesos, they both smiled and nodded yes. I quickly handed them the money and pulled away from the checkpoint. The young Federales would soon figure out they had lost out on this deal.
Crossing the Baja from west to east to reach Santa Rosalie was a continuation of mountains and high plains. Tiny coved beaches of white sand and clear blue water, nestled below jagged cliffs, were a welcome addition. Santa Rosalie, once an active copper mining town, sported an oddity: wooden houses. The Rothchild dynasty shipped the ore to California and lumber made the return voyage. While the shipyard is a graveyard of rusting cranes and warehouses, the mountain is dotted with wooden houses sporting crimped tin roofing. Winding up the mountain on smoothly paved streets, I discovered the St. Francis Hotel, built in 1886 to house the engineers and visiting businessmen. Constructed totally of wood, the lattice railings, shuttered windows and porch rockers welcomed me to another century. Excited, I accepted a room on the second floor for a better view of the bay and village. I waited calmly for assistance to move my luggage upstairs. The Senora queried if there was a problem. With an engaging smile she advised that she was the manager, cook, waiter and hartender, but clearly, she did not do luggage. On the first landing, I shifted my grasp on the two suitcases and leaned against the railing for a brief rest. Gently, quietly, the railing began to move outward. I dropped the suitcases and threw myself toward the wall. The railing remained hanging over the sidewalk.
My room was papered in padded fabric, the random width wooden floor rolled up and down. The windows were nailed shut and the controls for the air conditioner were wall decorations; there wasn’t one. The soothing sounds of the creaking porch rockers transported me as I watched the sunset. One forgot the lack of 21st century amenities. I was enveloped in the 1900s.
North of the border, five giant hotels, twenty restaurants and a McDonalds would have circled this inlet. We retrieved our life jackets from the only building on the beach, a small wooden snack. As I stood at the water’s edge waitlng for them to bring the small fishing boats to us, our guide instructed us to take off our shoes, roll up our pant legs and wade out to the boats. Hey, this would never happen at Disney!
There must be an art to whale watching which I wasn’t informed of. I saw noses, mid-sections, tails and water spouts. OK, the joke is on me. This is a multi-sectioned, mechanical mock-up they drag through the water, right? I guess the French family, who took rolls of film of body parts, intend to tape them together before they show their friends. After sweeping back and forth across the inlet for two bours, our guide turned the boat to shore. It was late March and the whales had begun their migration north. We were fortunate to have glimpsed the procrastinators.
Being pulled over by the Federales is not a new experience, but being confronted by the “Bug Squad” as I tried to leave Guerrero Negro was. The masked exterminators inforimed me I had to pay them ten pesos. What a bargain. For ten pesos I could have the paint job on my car destroyed by insecticides. I tried to reassure them that the only fruit I had in my car was a single Georgia peach, my passenger. Mordida is such a wonderful Mexican tradition. When I asked if they would consider NOT spraying the car for twenty pesos, they both smiled and nodded yes. I quickly handed them the money and pulled away from the checkpoint. The young Federales would soon figure out they had lost out on this deal.
Crossing the Baja from west to east to reach Santa Rosalie was a continuation of mountains and high plains. Tiny coved beaches of white sand and clear blue water, nestled below jagged cliffs, were a welcome addition. Santa Rosalie, once an active copper mining town, sported an oddity: wooden houses.

The Rothchild dynasty shipped the ore to California and lumber made the return voyage. While the shipyard is a graveyard of rusting cranes and warehouses, the mountain is dotted with wooden houses sporting crimped tin roofing. Winding up the mountain on smoothly paved streets, I discovered the St. Francis Hotel, built in 1886 to house the engineers and visiting businessmen.

Constructed totally of wood, the lattice railings, shuttered windows and porch rockers welcomed me to another century. Excited, I accepted a room on the second floor for a better view of the bay and village. I waited calmly for assistance to move my luggage upstairs. The Senora queried if there was a problem. With an engaging smile she advised that she was the manager, cook, waiter and bartender, but clearly, she did not do luggage. On the first landing, I shifted my grasp on the two suitcases and leaned against the railing for a brief rest. Gently, quietly, the railing began to move outward. I dropped the suitcases and threw myself toward the wall. The railing remained hanging over the sidewalk.
My room was papered in padded fabric, the random width wooden floor rolled up and down. The windows were nailed shut and the controls for the air conditioner were wall decorations; there wasn’t one. The soothing sounds of the creaking porch rockers transported me as I watched the sunset. One forgot the lack of 21st century amenities. I was enveloped in the 1900s.
I had been driving for four days and was anxious to reach La Paz to catch the ferry. A pile of rocks on the edge of the road wasn’t unusual; the Federals that appeared from behind it was. Once again I was motioned to pull over and told they wanted to search the car. My Hanes Her Way was to be tossed thís way and that one more time.
More men had put their hands on my underwear these last few days than in all my years of dating! It wasn’t a conscious response, I simply said no, they could not search the car.
The young soldier stared at me, stepped back and conferred with his buddy. He motioned for two other soldiers to come forward. I was simply too tired to imagine the worst.
Politely they asked if I would transport two of the soldiers to their home in the next village. I was likely the topic of conversation for quite a while in this remote mountain village. We roared through the streets toward the plaza with the two young Federales wedged in the tiny back seat, radio blaring salsa and a loca gringa driving.
After two days of haggling with the Mexican bureaucracy about permits for the car, I finally scheduled the ferry trip from La Paz to Mazatlan. Once the car was safely stowed in the bowels of the boat, I wandered around like “a blind dog in a meat house,” unclear as to when and where I was to board. Intuitively I thought to follow the endless stream of Mexican suitcases.
As in Santa Rosalie, I was once again transported to the 19th century; perhaps Liverpool or Dublin, hundreds of immigrants boarding a ship to America. Crowing roosters tied in cardboard boxes, bags and baskets of bedding and clothing, tiny children crying in the arrns of their mothers. Tears and hugs from family members as the line moved slowly toward the gangplank.

I kept wondering where this mass of humanity disappeared to as we were shown to our Especial stateroom on the top deck of the ship. Having seen Titanic too many times, I envisioned elegant chandeliers, silver and polished wood. A worn-out sofa bed completed the living room, the bedroom consisted of two futons.
The bathroom, however, sported a roomy shower, a vanity for m’lady and toilet paper! The ferry had an outdoor bar on the upper level, complete with deafening bandas music. As I watched the sun go down, more and more people joined the festivities. This became the Mexico that I know. The families jammed together in the lower decks had joined the fiesta. Babies and bottles of tequila were passed around, young lovers crept off to the shadows and the gnarled hands of not-so-young lovers joined.
Driving the Baja was an experience of a lifetime; memories I shall always have. Here is a suggestion for you: Once a year, go someplace you’ve never been before.