A final whisk around Mexico before heading north to California, USA.
29th Mar 2005

A mile stone, or is it a mille km stone
Students gather to party in N Mexico - a bit dull for us
Off road and up into the chilly mountains
R+R back on the gulf of California
Aborted hot springs and snorting sea spray
Rumours of British chicanery. You decide the veracity.
The decision is made to head north
Call that security? Might as well have a high school hall monitor.

The big 100,000

We rolled over the 62,500 mile marker on the way up from Bahia Kino back to our fondly remembered campsite at Magdalena. It couldn't have been more appropriate; we were at almost the exact spot where we'd taken a picture on the way south on account of the scenic beauty. The road was beautiful and twisty with a good surface, we knew we were going to have a warm reception from Wenceslao. All very auspicious.

We were back in the land of Kino missions and able to fill in the last couple of blanks that we'd drawn on the way down. We'd missed a turn and so taken a parallel road to the one that hosts Oquito and Tubutama. Before hitting the road, we chewed the fat with Wenceslao about how to market his hostel. We're hardly experts but we've seen enough fliers and done enough searching for hostels to give him a few good ideas. Very difficult to really give this place the pull of the major colonial cities, seaside towns or Mayan ruins that most tourists flock to - most backpackers don't really stop at the minor towns in between.

Like most of the historic missions of Padre Kino, Tubutama had its front doors locked and no one seemed to be rushing to open up for us to give it the once over. A nice guy pulled up on a bicycle but couldn't help gaining entrance. He was awfully impressed with our trip, though, and uttered the most gushing oohs and aahs. Then he simply rode off. Odd.

Meanwhile the only other vehicle on the plaza was a girl of about six pedalling a rather nice plastic quad bike. She rode carefreely round and round, but pulled up and waited courteously as a police car came onto to square, then pedalled merrily on her way.

Not much more success at the Oquito mission. Although the only reason in tourist terms for visiting these small villages is to see the old churches founded by yer maun, there are no signs to direct one to the appropriate street. The newly paved highway has plenty of 'Ruta Kino' signs to keep ones faith in the navigator (do I detect a slight lack of confidence in my skills) but once in the old adobe all clues are guarded. First we found a rather charming old water mill. Having then passed down the other few streets of town we found the only religious building nestling in the graveyard. Signs confirmed it to be another locked up Kino mission. A very slight variation on the now familiar whitewashed stucco facade and little else to report.

Journey's end for the day was the gringolandia of Puerto Peñasco. For the benefit of the tourists who must be thought to have difficulty with the ñ in Peñasco, it is now commonly known as Rocky Point. Imagine renaming London, 'Rundon' for the benefit of the Japanese tourists and writing it on all the signs to boot! The last 20 miles following the coast of the Gulf of California were an absolute delight. The burnt-orange mallows carpeted the plains out to the coast and back to the ridge of hills to the east. Ribbons of bright primrose-yellow brittle bush flowers clung to the edge of the asphalt and provided a far clearer road marking than that provided by the mexican highways authority. The chaps at the road blocks were charming and helpful and for once didn't want us to open up all of our bits and bats for inspection. I think it must have been because I was so flattering of their Hummer.

Spring Break in Rocky Point

Rocky Point/Puerto Peñasco failed to hit the spot. The Canadian guys down at Bahia Kino had recommended a budget RV park that had a stretch of beach where dry camping was permitted for a small consideration. We hadn't envisaged the barren white sand beach stretching a couple of miles towards the tower crane studded timeshare developments. Bulldozers and other plant was out and about creating more and more of this featureless colourless beachscape. Hotels in town had, we assumed, hiked their prices in readiness for US universities spring break (apparently it is now not politically correct in the US to refer to the Easter holidays, likewise Christmas is known as the Festive Holiday) . There was no other reason why the pretty shabby looking motels could be asking so much. We opted for the broken bottle strewn beach camping option and set up at a respectable distance to the other bike. OK it was a Harley and had obviously arrived in the back of their 5th wheel, but solo Harley travellers can be fine; it's just the packs who tend to be boorish.

When the owners turned up from a bit of sea fishing I helped them to drag their dinghy up the beach and received a cold beer for my trouble. Near enough. Mickey and Kate are from the heart of British Columbia and fitted into a category of snowbird we haven't met before. Mickey builds roads and because of the deep frost that sets into the ground up north gets a two month break in the middle of winter until conditions get rather more manageable. Now then, would I sit in Canada gazing out of my window at the falling snow awaiting the spring or head down to Mexico and fish in the Gulf of California? Difficult decision. Not! Leaving behind their homes for a couple of months, one can forgive them for trailing their bike down rather than riding. Besides, how on earth would they manage to bring a dinghy with them other wise?

Their hog is what is known to the motorcycling fraternity as a rat-bike. The rules for this category are pretty simple. They should never be cleaned. Modifications should enhance performance and/or useability. They should be customised to a degree to set them apart from other bikes rather than conform to the ironic custom uniformity that generally exists in the Harley world. This fire-breathing specimen sports a nitrous oxide injection system, huge carburettor, sheepskin seat cover and a deep, deep layer of oil bound grime around the lower half. I was much amused by Mickey explaining about the care he had to take when repairing his gearbox. Not wanting to lose the coating of grime, but not get crap into the open gearbox was a huge problem. Sorry, but he gets no sympathy from me on that one. Any engineer with an element of common sense will clean all the crap away before engaging in sensitive maintenance. I believe that the origin of this ratty thing was that you could demonstrate how super reliable your bike was in that it had never been opened up for repairs, hence the dirty coating. Simply having dirt on it for image is a bid sad by my reckoning.

Bad news was that the spring break crowd would be arriving sooner than we thought - in a couple of days in fact. I thought it would be interesting to stop around and see just how wild these American kids could be (their reputation within the states is pretty grim). Hippy made me promise not to get up and deck someone if they vomited over our tent in the night. The only obvious sign that something was about to happen was the rigging of extra lights in the bar at the RV site and their showing videos of the semi-clad antics from previous years spring break parties. Down on the beach, a couple of Mexican families turned up and set up their camps. No sign of these sons and daughters of Satan.

We set off to town to check up on email and get some provisions. Charming chap at the internet invited us to stay with him but as we were set up down on the strip we turned him down - were we going to regret not taking up this offer? Still no sign of these rampaging hordes. Spot of lunch in the very simple eatery opposite the supermarket. There was something in the demeanour of the owner of the place that suggested that gringos rarely frequented the place. He was incredibly attentive and engaged us in pleasant chat during our repast. He assured us that, yes, this was spring break weekend. Every one in the supermarket was doing their usual weekly shop. The stacks of lager looked pretty much untouched. Not like the student revelry that were accustomed to.

Back at the beach and everything had changed. Huge pickups had congregated spilling their loads of youths and their highly tuned motorised appendages. Drag racing quad bikes hooned up and down the beach with only sporadic police attention cautioning riders of acceptable public beach practise. Piles of empty bottles blossomed. Music blared from any and all car hi-fis creating a cacophony of senseless kiddy music. We were glad that we'd spread out our groundsheet alongside the tent and created a little patch of our own.

There was all something rather vulgar about it all. Unfortunately for Pat, not in the sense of the promised nude antics, but more in the gross use of adult power toys, and the obvious attitude they they had a lot of money, so they could do as they please. Whilst a lovely Mexican family huddled next to their van, frightened, not allowing their children to enjoy the beach as they had the day before, future generations of beer soaked Unionists used the pitched tents as a slalom course, deliberately driving into piles of bottles and rubbish bags. Overhead were microlights and jetskiers bounced over the waves. What I want to know is where do these students get the cash for such things? I can only assume mummy and daddy. I had seen some of these cultured individuals in town making fun of a Mexican lad trying to scrap in some money for his family by selling chiclets. Their attitude was not only arrogant and ignorant it was filled with contempt and superciliousness. They made me angry. Can you tell?

I did I confess smile a little at their expense when a guy in his shiny, trendy monster truck, with supper big wheel got stuck in the sand and was pull out by a beat up old pick up.

It was I, not Patrick, who lost patience with these youths, when one decided it would be funny to let a firework off so close I went temporarily deaf. (To be fair, the perpetrators seemed to be Mexicans and were probably baiting us as we appeared to be ageing Spring Breakers.) I began to see the vulnerability of our tiny tent against the rampaging quadders, as the light began to fade. Into the bargain a pathetic attempt to try to explain to a Mexican family who were setting up, that could they move their truck a little to stop quadders using our tent as a roundabout - was met by laughter. I was plain scared, Patrick was rational and unsupportive and failed to understand why telling me to stop fussing did nothing to make me feel comfortable. The only thing that calmed me was when the pick ups began to leave, for the revelry of the town centre.

As the spring breakers left us, we settled in to an evening of chat with Kate and Mickey. Lovely people, who were completely opposed to us in their political leanings. Mickey had volunteered to fight in Vietnam, which I have to admire him for that he was willing to fight for his beliefs. Today he is relieved that Britain is still a force to be reckoned with and not under the thumb of those wussy Europeans. He believes wholeheartedly, that America and Britain are spreading the ethos of democracy, and should continue throughout the Middle East. We agreed to disagree.

Our sleep was interrupted by....

'Dude, got the top of the tent, Dude!
'Dude, where's the pegs?
Which way round, Dude?
Dude?
What Dude?
Pegs Dude?
Dude is this the right pole? Dude....
.....
Dude, where's the other pegs
Don't know, Dude
searching noises
Dude
What Dude...
And so on...

Pat restrained from the overwhelming desire to approach them with their missing pegs and ask 'Is one of you, a Mr Dude?'

In the morning we were not the only ones packing to leave, the frightened Mexicans were also on the move. Guess they will be celebrating Semana Santa somewhere else.

We were still undecided whether we would go into the Baja or not. We planned to head towards Mexicali via the national park of Pinacate, famous for a bunch of volcano craters.

Great, it has camping,! But we can't come in. Eh? Motos are not allowed, no explanation was given, but images of the quad bikers the day before flashed into my mind and the I understood and was equally frustrated that reputation of foreign bikers is probably not filled with respect for a national park, and we were being tainted by a swarm of idiots. It's not new. Africa has a downer on bikers in the National Parks. Having had the crap scared out of me once by elephants, I'm happy not to be going in them without the armoury fo a vehicle round me.

But all was not lost, the road although 50 miles longer around the park was beautiful, the desert still festooned with spring flowers. The road then turned sharp left and hugged the US border. The road itself was not that exciting but with the verges filled with golden blooms and lupins and the craggy mountains on either side guarding the road as it ribboned its way - it was a delight. At every little track off to the north were signs reporting the dangers of proceeding towards the USA.

Sat in a queue at a military check point we road along the car in front for a little shade and rest-bite from the sun. Would you believe it! The driver the same lovely guy who had offered us accommodation in Puerto Peñasco. It's a small world.

Mexicali, is a commercial, industrial sprawl of a border town. In search for a nights kip, led us into a number of motels that lined the roads at regular intervals. Tempted in by prices advertised on billboards, we discovered we merely for an hours stay. OK we now know what places are likely to be by the hour, we now had the problem of circumnavigating a town the size of Nottingham to find that elusive thing; a decentish hotel at an OK prices. In the end we settled for a clean place charging less for a full nights stay than the 'Footy Motels' and included 'A la Carte' breakfast for one.

That night we debated our options, North or South, South or North, would we be able to avoid the spring breakers who infested the peninsular for cheaper booze and lower legal drinking age, would there be as many spring breakers cluttering the national parks of the US, we may as well have tossed a coin. We decided to go South.

I have to admit it was nice to have the luxury of a bed, a room and shower. The breakfast was enough for two and the service was excellent. At breakfast the hotel was clearly the choice of the local Mexican businessman. We were out of Gringosville. Temporarily.

We decided to chance the rules and see if the next national park would let us in. Certain amount of risk involved, here, as it was 35 miles down a dirt road to the entrance to the park. To be denied entry would have been, let us say, frustrating. As if to warm us up for the afternoons action on the dirt, the first blast through the mountains from Mexicali to Rumorosa was absolutely adrenalin inspiring. Winding upwards for getting on for 1500 metres, the dual carriageway is separated giving one a two lane race track with the comfort of knowing that nothing is going to be coming the other way. Not for the first time, the mist gathered in the hills means that the stunning views have not been well rendered for the appreciation of our web audience. Sorry!

The mountains of Baja California

We had to ask where the turn off was down to the park as signing was standardly terrible. We'd worried that we'd missed the turning because we had done more than two tenths of a mile extra than we should have according to our Automobile Association of America map of Baja California. In fact we'd only gone one tenth of a mile too far and we'd maybe made a rounding error when calculating on our tachometer. The guy who gave us directions pointed at the sign that was visible from where we were stopped and looked at us as if we were numbskulls. Close.

A little bit of sand, loose gravel and mud but for the most part just rough. So long as I kept my eyes on the road for the easiest line, there wasn't a lot to worry about. I thing I'd over stressed myself about what the dirt roads would be like in Baja, tainted by visions of the Baja 1000. Laguna Hanson was deserted. The only building that could have been the park HQ was a small kiosk that looked as though everyone had moved on a few years ago.

Although the lake dries out to a bit of a boggy splodge in summer, we managed for once to catch something approaching it's best. Even though the water level was down, there was enough to set off the bleached rock clusters and pine trees to produce a rather lovely tranquil spot. It could have been a bit warmer for my taste. There was a sign that motos were not allowed but since there was nobody there but us, who was to know.

We had ridden through true wilderness, with only a couple of beaten up trucks for company and the joy of jack rabbits and a stray coyote crossing our path. We now had a whole lake to ourselves and some mystery animals. We had seen foot prints in a few places, ones akin to sheep, but about twice as big, what were they? I had heard that the mountains of the Baja have big horn sheep. Maybe this is they? They of course remained elusive.

Leaving Hips to fill the tent with bedding and other stuff, I set off to see if I could find any other buildings fo consequence. Hips has sure that it should be off to the right a bit further round from where we pulled up. The AAA map with its measurements to the nearest tenth of a mile had been quite correct up to this point. Personally, I had been rather sceptical of American maps, but now I am truly impressed. Completing a lap of the lake left me none the wiser. It seemed we had the park to ourselves. We gathered up firewood and settled in for the evening. Just as twilight failed, a little convoy of jeepy kind of things hooned past. I was amazed that a bunch of spring breakers could know these roads so well that they could drive them at night and manage not to crash at the corners or break anything on the creek crossings.

Morning revealed much. We had to stop by the spring breakers to ask the way down to Ojos Negros. Now all was clear. We hadn't had to suffer with thumping rap music all night as these guys were locals who seemed to be out on a logging expedition. Their directions puzzled me as they were telling us to turn right up ahead and on my circumnavigation of the lake, there had been no right turns available. At the distance they had suggested there was a small side lake that was discharging into the main one. At one edge, under the lea of a 20 foot high boulder, a track plunged into the lake to reappear once past this obstacle. This coincided with the distance to the turn off that Hips had calculated. We resorted to tried and tested pragmatism. Hippy nipped off into the rocks while I de-booted and paddled the watery bit to find the depth and best line of attack.

She appeared on the far side after a couple of minutes and reported back that she'd found the park HQ but no one to offer advice on road passability. A line of rocks had been laid out to mark the edge of the road through the water. After a few generations of park visitors had passed through, the rocks now stood on what was the only shallow bit left. I managed to move them out of position just enough to allow the passage of Berthette. Normally, water crossings are best performed at a constant speed of about 10 miles an hour sending a bow wave out in front. Here I had to go a bit slower to weave through the boulders and it got a bit worrying as to whether I had enough momentum to avoid slowing up on soft bits. That is the only excuse I can give for the rather pathetic "Ooh, I'm scared" picture that Hippy took while I made the rather feeble looking crossing. True the water was not deep, but how fast would you like to slalom half a ton of bike through.

Down the road and the signing improved even if the surface did not. There is obviously more rain in Baja than I had imagined. Steep sections of road were deeply rutted where streams had run along and across them. I could tell we were on the more travelled road into the park when I saw a shop, there had been nothing on the road north, then a village. It looked as through these places sprung into action for Mexican Holiday and siesta-ed for the rest of the year. Although I moan a lot, there was nothing really that any bike in half competent hands couldn't manage. Our guide book suggests that this road into the park is manageable by any vehicle. I think I might be getting in touch with them to send a very rude message if I'd attempted it in a normal saloon car!

A brief relaxing road down gently twisting tar and a stop for lunch and then the decision had to be made. Do we go Mike's Sky Rancho, another 20 miles of dirt obviously heading skywards. Their accommodation was rated at 'E' which is cheap as chips so we thought we might as well give it a look in.... First 8 miles were lovely compacted gravel, then a horrible bit of loose sand, you know the kind that you snake through, then some pretty steep rough rocky climbs and finally a couple of minor stream crossings. Fine, we'd made it. But wait. Isn't that Mike's Sky Rancho on the other side of this rather swollen stream. Boots off for the second time - way too deep. OK, there had been another turning a little way back that seemed to have been used as an alternative. We backtracked and tried the other road - fine, it led to the river. Boots off again. Just getting into the river when a purple-haired grungy lass toddled down towards us to direct us towards the bridge that had been built downstream. Doh!

We were a little shocked at the price - our promised 'E'-grade room turned into a room at 50 dollars - each! We showed the guide book to the manager and he seemed completely uninterested that his gaff was listed in totally the wrong price range and also completely unsympathetic that we'd come 20 miles up a reasonably crap road on a misguided mission. At least they had the decency to let us camp for 5 dollars (I was waiting for some outrageous fee to emerge). The place was clearly a stop in Baja 1000 by the number of racing stickers that filled the reception windows, which Charlie Steffenhagen referred to as the Pussies Dakar Rally. Basically for all those Unionists who want to think they're hard core bikers, but haven't the balls to do the real thing. Now there is no way we could do the real Dakar 2 up with all the luggage, but this road was OK. Guess that makes us loaded pussies then.

It was a sheltered little spot, and despite the altitude felt like sunny weather.
After a couple of days of dirt, I was in the mood for chilling for the day, or maybe finding my land legs and walking in the mountains. Our Indian fire, failed to thaw my cold feet and had not warmed since they had been damp most of the day. The camp host mastiff, sidled up and joined us by the camp fire. Frost greeted our waking. For the first time on this trip, our water was frozen! I thought it was cold. Maybe we should move on.

The morning also brought us confirmation that you would have looked very silly if we had tried to cross the river; a truck stranded axle high in the river. Water whooshed from the car door when the poor chap was eventually pulled out. Bet you that was warm.

It's one of those things that seems to be a universal laws, but a route always seems shorter on the way back. And so it did on the way out of the ranch to the main road. Why is that? Is it that the unknown seems longer, and that second time around, you are a little more blasé. But it did put my muscles to the test - being mostly down hill. As pillion I have never felt a need to hold on, but on steep downhill stretches I slide forward, mashing Pat's manhood (how flattering she is) against the tank. Not good. I push down on the pegs and hold myself back with my thighs. Needless to say I could probably patent the exercise and by the bottom of the hill I need a rest. I saw the excuse I needed. A yucca-y type plant was in bloom. And what a bloom it was. It was huge and if I hadn't seen it for myself, attached to a real live plant I wouldn't have believed it. We have been so lucky. This year the bonus winter rains have meant that the vegetation has gone crazy after 2 years of drought. This bloom was in fact a dense collection of smaller flowers, that combined to make a conical display about 45 cm high and 30 cm wide. Truly splendid.

As we returned to the tar we were treated again by a twisty gorge, filled with, golden, red and purple flowers punctuated by majestic cacti. In the plateau the contrasts were striking. The snow capped peak of over 3000m and its supporting range were the backdrop of the sand desert floor, splattered with splashes of colour of spring.

Baja California is a state of dual personality. In San Felipe we were back on the coast and the coast means hoards of tourists. We had not seen one in the last two days. The centre of the peninsular is rugged, desolate beauty, and truly wild. The edges as we were about to learn are where the gringos swarm, for sunning, drinking, sport fishing and the like. I found it hard to believe that all these holiday makers on quad bikes had not ventured onto the dirt roads and preferred to pose up and down the main street, much like some Harley riders.

San Felipe - beach resort

Our campsite was inhabited by snowbirders who were all in the process of getting ready to move on to avoid the spring break influx. Oddly there was no sign of them yet in this resort town. We had a few days of wonderful company with them before they or we headed off. Gazing out from our treehouse camping pitch, the first vehicle in view was that of Stan and Joan. Carol, Amy and Jessica were down to join them for a while and invited us over to join the party for clam chowder. Delicious it was and most charming company they proved to be.

Teachers all, either retired or still flogging it out. Stan filled us in on all sorts of stuff that we really ought to know; Hoover was a fag, for example. Having spent many years as a teacher of history, he knows all the dirt that has risen to the surface about the 'heroes' of American history. To be completely PC, the topics taught change year by year. George Washington hardly gets a mention now that his slave-trading (can I say) dark side is out in the open. etc. We got a guided tour of their vehicle which was by far the swankiest we've seen; all the tricks in the electronic gadget world, but, for me, the most amazing thing was that in the little cupboard where all the plumbing attaches there is a soap dispenser, shower head and hand towels. How organised is that?

Stan also filled us in on polite etiquette in company. Apparently one never discusses, religion, politics, or questions about the Second Amendment. He always likes to put to test his adversaries with 'So what does the Third Amendment say if you are so into the constitution' . Never fails and we've have been testing it since and not found a person yet who knows. Mind you I say what is not OK for polite discussion, when really I should say that discussion in general is not OK. Where in England it is normal to have a bit of after dinner debate, debate is not a skill forstered in American society. Apparently, to question someone on their thoughts is not to seek understanding but is just seen as rude. The other thing he claimed is that it is not polite to discuss bad things, like poverty, or crime in relationship to America. Hence I suppose why murders in the USA do not even hit local news, but one person gets shot in Mexico it is all over national news. Oops, we have clearly gone around upseting a lot of people, in our attempts to find out what makes American culture tick.

Cliff, Jerry, Paul, Mary and Lee took up the hospitality baton when Stan and Joan headed north. A fish fry one evening and a BBQ night the next. We felt incredibly privileged. Great food, great company and then.... Paul got his guitar out and treated us to some great tunes.

There was something about these people that I envied, it was an overwhelming aura of confidence, not in the least bit arrogant, but an air of self assurance. Paul enjoyed and had the confidence to pick up a guitar and sing in front of a bunch of strangers, where does that kind of confidence come from? Was it their religious beliefs? Was it something to do with their raising. They had all clearly had their ups and downs in life but had kept their belief in themselves intact. Maybe it is all part of the ethos of non-questioning, that you don't question yourself either. Or is it just the British disease that we masters of our own self deflamation. Maybe the Americans have a point, why think about negative things - its miserable. I think it was simply the fact that he was a really talented guy who enjoyed playing and enjoyed the feeling that others appreciated it.

.... meanwhile back next to our pitch, Juane and Juanetta and their dysfunctional children had turned up. Dad got drunk and stoned, mum opened bags of snacks (to be fair to drunk, stoned dad, he did do a bit of cooking now and again), daughter spent an hour or so putting makeup on when using the time for a bit of a workout might have been better spent - the rest of her day was spent pouting and eating the snacks proffered by mum and then there was the son. He did absolutely nowt all day long. I noticed him one morning flicking sand with the end of a paddle. Just kind of digging the blade in a little and tossing the arisings in the air a little. Not such a wicked thing to do, but the sad unimaginative chap was doing the same thing for two hours. Their music varied from the sublime (when dad was choosing) to the mind numbingly tedious (when the children got their hands on the ghetto blaster). You really can't imagine how bad it got unless you have heard the omnipresent 'gasolina' song that must be a big hit in Mexico at the moment played three or four times on the trot.

Come on now, how many dysfunctional families invade Costa Del Sol every year. I think what saddened me was that in general Mexican families a joy to be with, children are happy outgoing and playful, without the thoughtlessness and bratishness of many children in Britian. But it looks like some of the negative aspects of 'developed world' youth culture are moving south.

In stark contrast, our other flank was covered by a perfectly charming expatriate Mexican family down from Nevada. Their children were not only good looking but perfectly well behaved. They did things as a family. There were no sharp words, no whining. They even managed to operate their quad bikes without causing distress to neighbours and set off on little expeditions in a little crocodile of quads. Just lovely. We congratulated them on having such lovely, well behaved children and they simply looked puzzled. Maybe they were far enough away from los Slobs to not notice their superiority.

Hot water to sea spray

We thought we'd nip in to some hot springs on our way back north. Aguas Calientes is found at the end of an extremely steep dirt road, down in a valley. "Not to be approached after rain", sayeth the guide book. It had been raining a couple of days before, or at least so we were told by folk who had come over the mountains from western Baja. We weren't daunted and thought that if the going got tough we could always return to the highway and give it up as a bad job. There was a grader out halfway down the road and he confirmed that the next section was no worse than the first half. Where he'd been working left a little to be desired. In my huge experience as a road builder, I've always found that the combination of a grader and a compacting roller of some sort leaves behind it a smooth hard comfortable surface. So far, around and about, all I've ever seen is a lone grader stripping off the uneven top layer and either leaving a bank of arisings at the side of the road or distributing the loose material back over the 'highway'. In this case, the grader had managed to skim the tops off the ruts and distribute the clayey residue across the road giving no indication where the loose stuff in the bottom of the ruts might be. Couple of squirmy moments but nothing to panic about. The campsite at Aguas Calientes was asking 10 dollars each to camp. So, even though we were faced with a steep rough ascent back up to the blacktop, we decided to turn and run. Up hill is generally much easier on dirt as you can slow down without worrying about locking up a wheel or two. Stopping to take pictures can be a hassle, though, as when you come to a stop and try to remain thus using the front brake, the wheel tends to drag backwards. Half a ton? So what?

For me it was worth the trip, the green of the hills was like crushed emerald velvet laid over rugged mountains. The wild flowers painted the verges with purples, yellows, whites, pinks and blues. Poor Pat concentrating negotiating the bike over the diveted gravel and rutted road, never gets the chance to see the scenery as I do.

We ended up just south of Ensenada on the road to the Bufadora. The campground looked sufficiently unconventional for our taste. The owner has built something of a castle down by the shore and terraced the rest of his property to take passing RVs. Bufar in Spanish translates as "to snort" and the source of this snorting is a little bit of a rock crevice that the Pacific rushes into sending a spray of spume up into the air or onto the specators if they stand too close. We copped a view of Bufadora after setting up camp, but by the time we got there it was dusk and we couldn't tell if there was snorting going on or not. We returned to camp expecting to chat with the site manager in the morning to find out when the best snorting was likely to be, assuming that it was a tide related activity.

That night we found some excellent seating with a view over the estuary, to drink a little libation - in a derelict golf cart of all things. What an old golf cart was doing on the banks of a Mexican estuary, one can only conjecture. Hand they once planned to build a golf course, had someone driven it from USA until the battery went flat, was it a memorial to a golfing relative?

Didn't get a chance to chat with the manager as we were accosted by a couple of pretty hyper guys who are living in an RV pretty much permanently. Mikey and Janet, clearly the worse for wear after a night observing spring break activity somewhere up the coast, nevertheless made us very welcome and hung one of their necklace creations round Hippy's neck before you could say Bufadora. Then they insisted on taking us out to the Bufadora in their car before doing a bit of shopping so that Joel, a Brooklyn-Jew-turned-Mexican could prepare meatloaf for dinner. We must have been a bit longer than expected as poor Joel was hopping from foot to foot when we arrived back with the necessary meat and breadcrumbs.

Meatloaf was top and we had a little bit of an evening around the fire talking nonsense. Did you know that there is a rabbit on the moon, for instance? Hippy will confirm this and she hadn't been smoking anything. Maybe she caught a secondary whiff.

Joel has a wonderful quick wit and it was a joy to be with someone who possible had a more bizarre strain of thought than myself. It was also refreshing to be with someone who asks all those questions about our travels that others are too shy to ask. Was this his Jewish streak or his New York upbringing I don't know. For the first time in our travels, he asked us, how much the trip has cost us so far, surprising no-one else has asked us before, and we had a bit of calculation to do. People have asked how we finance it, but his question was much more pertinent. He asked us 'How do you manage sex in that tent?' again an excellent question 'Not often' is the answer. Sorry.

That night I was tired, tired of moving on, tired of meeting new people and the stress of having to access what suitable topics of conversation are. We have met many wonderful people, but I miss the ease of talking to people I know. Sometimes it feels like we a permanently in Freshers week, we never get a chance to find out if people could be life long friends or get beyond predictable conversation.

I tire of telling people who we are and what we do, and having to justify it. 'What made you do this?' Is the most common question. People would think me rude if I asked everyone to justify their lifestyle. But it is OK for me to be quizzed often over 5 times a day. Is it so irrational what we do? Is it so hard to understand? That night we had talked nonsense, we had bantered about nothing, I miss that. I miss not having to explain who I am to friends that know me. I miss girly gossip. I miss not being there for my friends and family, who I am sure survive without me, but I would like to be there for them.

The morning was met with a hive of actitvity, Mikey had spied a maturing set of bananas on an empty lot and decided to transplant it. Now, I do not claim to be a banana transplanting expert by any means at all, but time will tell whether a fruiting branch will root. There then followed an ensuing saga of how to prop the weighty bloom. A stake was abandoned in favour of a piece of exhaust pipe, not elegant but definitely functional. But the bloom was still too weighty to balance, out came the masking tape. I hope their efforts are rewarded.

It was tempting to stay, as no day would be dull with Joel, Mike and Janet, but we moved on to San Quintin and the old English Mill.

San Quintin

Tomas, a Chihuahuan, filled us in on the local legend and his version of why the English came to San Quintin.

Undisputed facts
- there is an English cemetry in San Quintin
- some English came under the auspices of growing wheat
- they built a mill
- they brought with them a steam engine
- they built 29km of railway line to Santo Domingo
- they left
- the beach nearby is called El Dorado

Legend
- gold was buried by Jesuits when they had to leave in a hurry in Santo Domingo 29km from San Quintin
- a map was made of whether the treasure was
- the map was stolen with a bunch of other stuff by English pirates
- the map laid gathering dust for a couple of centuries until it was spotted and translated.
- the English used the wheat growing thing as a cover.
- when they left they took the gold and hid it in the train engine they put back on the ship to go home.
- the boat sank
- the gold is still there at the bottom of the sea

Tomas was convinced that the English would not just have come half way round the world to be failers at growing wheat. I tried to assure him that he may be right but it was also equally feasible that British in colonial times were often ignorant and arrogant enough to set off on far less rational missions than trying to grow wheat.

The legend would be a wonderful plot for one of our favourite trashy adventure writers Clive Cussler, but if it has any grain of truth in it, I am sure that the gold would not still be down there.

A fellow biker turned up at San Quintin. Dave has been on a blast down to the bottom of Baja and back. He even got to stay in the original Hotel California. I confess, I know nothing about the true story of Hotel California but I'd always imagined that it was a shabby litle dive in the mid-west. Another bit of history I have to read up on. Anyway, we spent a jolly evening over a restaurant dinner and a couple of beers. Something of a rarity for us but we've been so thrifty recently we could justify it. While we ate, he got a call from his cat-sitter with an update on weather in northern California. It seemed that another front was heading in and rain was in the offing. He mulled over whether to carry on north as he had intended or use up a bit more of his 'float' time with a brief return south to Catavina where he'd been rather taken with the boulder strewn scenery. We had nowt better planned and so we decided to hook up on the mañana and ride down to see the splendour.

A quick U-turn

Come morning and Dave had had an update on the weather. Marvelous things these telephone things. Don't even have wires any more, you know. Seems the rain was a temporary glitch and so he was sticking with plan 'A'. We, on the other hand, had got switched on to the idea of the boulder-strewn desert and so we waved a cheery good bye and twisted our way down another stunning Mexican road - the Trans-Peninsular highway.

A night out rough camping was a joy. Dusk and dawn in the boulder fields was tranquility itself. OK, so another couple of hundred yards away from the highway would have added a certain je ne sais quoi. It was time to make a decision on where we are heading, though.

Everyone we have been meeting who have come down from t'north have been wowing about the wild flowers in Death Valley. We've seen some pretty spectacular desert scenes already but it would be a shame to miss out on such a rare exreme flowering in California. We decided to rip up to the border in quick time and say a sad farewell to Mexico.

We stopped in an extremely ordinary motel in San Quintin on the way back up. Enough said.

We planned to overnight in Tecate before crossing over to the States. Could it have been that we were ariving on a Friday and the weekly tour of the Tecate brewery is on Saturday? Surely not. Some thing felt wrong to me about Tecate. The first lights we pulled up to seemed to have been set up on all reds to allow the police cars to gather on our left. God knows what was going down but a couple of rotten doors bit the dust and some guy was clapped in cuffs and dragged away. Hotels were grotty and overpriced and everything seemed to be telling us to get out. We had a US border to deal with and it was getting late in the day. We were not brimming with confidence. If we repeated our experience of Texas, it would be unlikely that we'd have much time for find somewhere to stay.

Hola America

Now I'm really pissed off with homeland security. How long did it take us to get through formalities? Three and a half hours like when we crossed in Texas? No, 30 seconds. Did we have our retinas scanned as in Orlando? No. Did we get a full finger printing as in Texas? No. Did we have to fill in endless triplicate forms for Berthette as we did in Brunswick, Georgia? No.

In fact, we crossed the border with no checks at all. None of our details were recorded. We did not have to pay the spurious 6 dollars that we'd had to down at Roma. It wasn't a fluke, I had to cross he border twice. Neither time did anyone seem remotely interested in me other than the first officer we came across who berated me for speaking in Spanish with an extremely condescending "You're in America now, sir." I resisted the urge to point out to him that both the United States and Mexico are in America. Perhaps all this is part of the grand plan to thwart terrorism. Be totally inconsistent and confuse your enemies. I had to badger the staff to give me an entry stamp. "You don't need one, sir" "But how is anyone going to know how long I've been in the country?" I'm sorry USA but your security is pathetic. I cannot stress that enough. With the measures that are in place, terrorists could cross into the country and live there their whole lives and no one would know they were there.

OK, so if we'd spotted the Mexican customs on the first time through, I could have discharged the temporary import and been clear and away into the States in 10 minutes. We had plenty of time to find somewhere to stay .......