The Baja Highway

The
North Pacific Coast

Our drive begins
as we enter Mexico via the international border crossing at San Ysidro, on U. S. Interstate 5, south of San Diego. From there, signs lead us past the shantytowns tumbling down the hills on the fringes of Tijuana, along the ugly and infamous border fence that blocks our view northward, past the Bullring by the Sea and onto Scenic Road 1-D, better known as the Ensenada Toll Road. The four-lane highway is carved into the Pacific headlands along the northern coastline of Baja California, from the resort city of Rosarito to the port of Ensenada, both popular destinations for weekend tourists from San Diego and Los Angeles, and for retirees from the U. S. and Canada.

Southbound border traffic moves right along. On the other hand, heading north at San Ysidro can be an ordeal. The last time I tried it, traffic was backed up for hours, the lanes clogged by commuters, shoppers and tourists from both sides of the border.

The traffic jam became a bazaar, as scores of peddlers hustled car to car, hawking everything from trinkets and blankets to tacos, ice cream and gaudy life-size renditions of the Crucifixion and the Virgin of Guadalupe, while from all sides an army of little kids attacked with dirty rags and squeegees, trying to smear my clean windshield for tips.

Headed south on
the Ensenada Toll Road.

The Otay Mesa border crossing, a few miles to the east, can be less crowded, but requires a confusing journey through the snarled traffic of downtown Tijuana. It's not for those who panic easily. Tecate, home of the famous brewery and half an hour farther east, is the simplest and fastest border crossing in either direction. You can get there from Tijuana by following the signs, if you can find the signs. You can also drive Highway 3 between Tecate and Ensenada, and bypass Tijuana and the toll road entirely, if you are willing to trade vistas of towering cliffs plunging into the Pacific for views of the Tecate city dump.

No papers are required to enter Mexico from the U. S., if you are carrying only reasonable quantities of personal effects and supplies for your trip. Carry contraband at your peril. Guns or ammunition in your car can be a one-way ticket to a Mexican jail, not renowned for hospitality or sanitation.

A validated tourist card is required, if you will be in the country for more than 48 hours or are traveling south of Ensenada. The cards (slips of paper stamped by an immigration official) are usually available at the immigration office at the border or in Ensenada. To obtain a card, you must present a passport or birth certificate.

Panga fisherman challenges
the Pacific surf.

Tourist cards can be validated for up to 180 days, but it's not always easy. They were still "free" the first time we arrived in Ensenada. We waited an hour or so in the inevitable line, after spending another hour finding the Migración office among the fish canneries and warehouses near the Ensenada waterfront. We presented our passports to the man with the stamp, a polite immigration officer who spoke good English, and told him we would like 180 days, please.

The ensuing conversation went something like this:

"I am sorry, señor, but we don't usually give more than 30 days, unless you have a permission form from the Office of Government Inconvenience and Impossible Delays. To get that you must first make an appointment with the Minister of Bureaucratic Indifference and obtain a Certificate of Absolute Necessity."

"And where do we make the appointment?"

"At the Department of Snowballs in Hell, señor, on the far side of Ensenada. You can find the office right behind Eduardo's taco cart, if Eduardo is working, and if he hasn't moved his cart. But, the office is closed in the morning on weekdays, and they are not open at all in the afternoon, or on Saturdays or Sundays."

"Might it be possible to pay some sort of...fee...or something...to speed things up a bit?"

"Si, señor."

"And how much would that fee be?"

"That is up to you, señor."

Ensenada, and the end of
the four-lane highway.

So, I laid two one-hundred-peso notes on the counter. That was worth about twenty-five U. S. dollars at the time. I was later told, by someone no more familiar with this routine than I was, that I paid too much.

At any rate, the polite official deftly pulled a cardboard box, brimming with colorful large peso notes and ten and twenty-dollar U. S. greenbacks, from under the counter and swept our contribution onto the heap. Thirty seconds later we had our tourist cards stamped for 180 days, and that was the last time we got our papers in Ensenada.

Today, it's not so simple. Now you must pay a fee (about $16) to get your tourist card validated. For some reason, the government doesn't seem to trust immigration officials to collect the fee. It must be paid at a bank, so now you need two stamps instead of one.

You can get into the country without paying the fee, but you might not get back out until you find a bank, and somebody inside with the right stamp. This fee is already so unpopular that, at last report, the Mexican consul in San Diego was soliciting letters from American tourists, to try to get his own government to repeal it.

The Santo Tomas Valley.

The Ensenada Toll Road is not part of the original Baja Highway. The old two lane Highway 1 is still there, running more or less parallel to the toll road, and it's free, which is about six dollars less than the toll road. But, this is our last chance to drive on anything resembling a gringo freeway for the next thousand miles.

Winding as it does along the cliffs above the Pacific Ocean, Scenic Road 1-D is, indeed, more scenic than the old Highway. The toll road is also faster, avoiding traffic congestion and potholes. And we can't overlook the fact that we would probably never find our way out of Tijuana if we tried to do it on the old highway.

That's not to say there aren't enough potential hazards on the toll road to keep you from falling asleep. There can be rough spots in the pavement. People seem to drive faster than the curves and conditions would allow.

On one trip the fog was so thick and sticky with salt spray, I had to stop the car on the narrow shoulder to assist the windshield wipers with a rag, while traffic sped by just inches away. On another occasion, a rainstorm had turned cliffs to landslides that blocked the road with rocks and mud, and carried big chunks of the highway down to the ocean a hundred feet below.

Ice cream parlor in Santo Tomas.

When the weather is good, and the highway in repair, it's a beautiful drive, following the contours of the mountains above the curved white beaches and the pounding surf. Unspoiled it's not, as developers have exploited nearly every spot that will hold, or nearly hold, a beachfront house or hotel or cinder block condominium project. Rosarito is an excellent example of what uncontrolled development can do to a picturesque coastline. But, even Rosarito is more scenic than the Tecate city dump.

Highway 1-D evaporates into the unruly congestion of downtown Ensenada. With concentrated effort, it is possible to follow the signs for Highway 1, watch the stoplights and avoid colliding with cars, bicycles, pedestrians, RV's, and dilapidated trucks wandering across the lanes, while making your way through this urban sprawl of a quarter million people.

Even if you don't get lost, the noisy traffic can tie you up for an hour or two, until you finally emerge on the south side of Maneadero and turn inland toward the mountains and Santo Tomás.

The coastal mountains
south of Santo Tomas.

The road to Santo Tomás and south to San Quintín is some of the newest and nicest pavement on the entire Baja Highway, recently replacing a long stretch of rutted and potholed blacktop washboard that could shake the fillings from your teeth, and do worse to your car's suspension. But, now it's two smooth, wide lanes of asphalt, most of it well striped and marked, winding through hills and valleys reminiscent of the California north of the border.

The vineyards of the Santo Tomás Valley have been among Baja's most important for over 200 years. Santo Tomás was the last mission established, in 1791, but its Dominican padres supplied wine for the entire California mission system. The valley's crops also include olives, corn, wheat, peppers, citrus and cactus fruit.

Coastal summit north of San Vicente.

A claim to fame Santo Tomás might do without is its two magnificent topes (TOE-pays), or speed bumps, laid like logs across the highway at each end of town to keep speeders from exploiting the new pavement. I've never heard of traffic radar in Baja, and most towns can't afford police cars.

Topes are cheap. Besides, they work better than speed traps. If you make your topes high enough, nobody will speed through your town, because they can't. These two legendary topes have since been mashed and scraped down to more normal size by the wheels of heavy trucks and the undersides of unfortunate passenger cars, but at the time they were reputed to be the biggest ever seen on the Baja Highway.

Taco stand in San Vicente.

We slowed to a crawl as we rolled into town and the first tope appeared. Unlike many, this one was well marked. I had installed the largest tires our little Honda CRX could take, to maximize our road clearance. We had considered unloading the car to give us more clearance, but decided it would be easier to hire some help to lift us off the hump, if it came to that.

There was no easy way around it, so I angled across and held my breath. We made it. The second tope, on the way out of town, looked even bigger. This time, there was a loud clunk as the asphalt log dented our muffler, but we were soon safely headed down the highway, climbing the coastal mountains toward San Vicente.

Baja is mostly desert.
It almost never rains in Baja California. That's what I told myself when I decided not to bother to replace the worn out wiper blades on the 1974 Volkswagen bus before heading down the peninsula in January of 1997. In fact, rain in January on the northern Baja coast is not at all unusual, and I allowed myself to forget that simple fact in my haste to get to the sunny desert climes farther south. The Baja Highway can be unforgiving of mistakes, and this was a mistake.

Valle de San Quintin:
Highway 1, Main Street through San Quintin;
Downtown Uruapan.

That January, it rained like no other January in memory, all the way from Oregon, where I set out, to the Mexican border and halfway down the Baja coast. I was a day or two behind the worst storm, and thought the worst was behind me after I got through the giant puddle that had formed in California's Central Valley, flooding Sacramento and dozens of other towns, and lapping over the shoulders of Interstate 5 as I rolled southward.

I had survived an impressive deluge with lightning and thunder in Bakersfield. The washouts and landslides on the Ensenada Toll Road had been a surprise, but they were behind me, too.

The rain was just a drizzle by the time I wound my way down from the coastal mountains into the San Quintín Valley, a low-lying strip of land between the ocean and the San Pedro Mártir mountain range. Despite the conventional wisdom, I was even risking driving at night, secure in the knowledge that a hot meal, a cold beer and a warm bed awaited me at the familiar Hotel La Pinta in San Quintín.

Row crops in the
San Quintin Valley.

A chilling breeze blew up from the floorboards, and I had wrapped myself in a blanket, because, of course, I was in warm, sunny Baja, where I wouldn't need my heavy coat. The ragged wiper blade cleared a small spot on the windshield on each backswing, before dragging a new smear of drizzly mud across it on each frontswing. By straining my body as far as I could to the right, while holding onto the steering wheel with one hand and the blanket with the other, I could, on the backswings, just barely make out the road ahead through the clear spot.

My headlights were dimmed by the mud thrown up by the slow dump truck I had followed over the mountains, where I was unable to pass on the curves in the rain. But, now the road was clear, except for the thin layer of watery mud on the pavement, and the La Pinta was only two hours away.

View of the Pacific Ocean,
from Hotel La Pinta, San Quintin.

I drove on like this for an hour, but the going was slow. After two hours, I still had not reached San Quintín, but it couldn't be much longer now.

My neck and back ached and my eyes were bleary from straining to peer through the intermittent clear spot on the windshield, and my feet were numb from the cold wind blowing up around the pedals in the unheated Volkswagen. I kept telling myself that relief was near.

I saw the lights of a town approaching. This would be Colonia Vicente Guerrero, last settlement before San Quintín. Soon I should see the first lights of Valle de San Quintín, the collective name for the string of normally dusty little strip towns strung along the highway where it traverses this fertile and prospering agricultural plain.

Sand dunes and the Pacific Ocean,
north of El Rosario.

Suddenly, I was right on top of an unlighted roadblock, and a flagman with a dim flashlight was frantically waving me off the highway. Another army checkpoint, I thought, just what I needed, a bunch of muddy soldiers going through my stuff while I stood outside in the drizzle. But, this guy was alone and didn't look like a soldier, and I saw no guns. I could see no place to go, so I just stopped where I was on the highway, as he continued to wave and point. Where he pointed was a very steep, rutted, muddy hillside, between two buildings on my right.

I would not have believed he wanted me to go up that muddy hill, except that there was nowhere else to go but back, and I was in Mexico. So, I turned off the pavement, and gunned the motor up the hill, for the first time glad that I had not replaced the old snow tires left on the bus by its previous owner.

Supermarket in El Rosario,
and one more Tecate beer sign.

I fishtailed up the hill, then hit the brakes as I went over the top and the mud street became a large pond. I slid down the hill and skidded to the water's edge.

It was too late to turn around, and there was no place to go but through the water or into the buildings on either side. On the far side of the water, about a block away, I could make out a reflectorized arrow. I guessed this was in fact the intended detour.

I saw no other cars. But, I figured the people ahead of me on the highway must have made it across somehow, and I really had no choice, so what the hell. I plunged in, and with my snow tires spinning I managed to slosh and skid my way across the lake, and followed the glowing arrow into the dark.

My headlight beams barely penetrated the black night. The detour went on for an eternal twenty minutes of unmarked ruts, mudholes and boulders, apparently into the bed of the "dry" river that had washed out the highway bridge in the rainstorm the night before.

There was little to indicate I was on the right track, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was headed away from the highway and toward the ocean. I had premonitions of ending up stuck on the beach in the dark, with the tide coming in.

Sign for backyard tire repair shop,
almost as common as Tecate signs.

Just when I was sure I had made a wrong turn and should try to find my way back, I saw a faint light ahead, then another reflectorized arrow and, finally, the distant lights of moving vehicles. Fifteen minutes later, I was climbing out of the riverbed, up a steep embankment and back onto Highway 1, where a flagman with a dim flashlight was waving another unsuspecting driver down the embankment and into the dark unknown.

Back on the highway, I remembered I was low on gas. I knew there was a big Pemex station in San Quintín. What I had not anticipated was that it would be under water.

A single pump, the only one not submerged by the flood, was serving a long line of vehicles, and I knew if I didn't get gas tonight, there might be none left by morning. I took my place in line, and after another hour my tank was filled. I suspected it was full of more water than gas, but the motor still ran, and I was finally back on my way to the La Pinta.

San Pedro Martir Mountains,
east of El Rosario.

The La Pinta Hotels were built by the Mexican government after the Baja Highway was completed in 1973. They were spaced along the highway about a day's drive apart, to accommodate and encourage travelers at a time when no other facilities were available. Today, although aging, overpriced, uneven in quality and facing competition, they are still among the more modern and reliable places to stay along the route. They are not the finest accommodations, nor the best bargains in Baja, but they are there when you need one.

The San Quintín La Pinta is a showpiece of the chain. It sits alone on a lovely, long stretch of white sand beach, three miles off the highway. But, it is accessible only by what might be the world's worst stretch of paved road, a narrow lane cratered like Swiss cheese with potholes that would discourage anyone with good sense from attempting to drive it at all.

Some of the potholes are the size of dinner plates, some the size of dining tables, but all are a foot deep, with sharp edges. You can't go around them, they are everywhere. Even the potholes have potholes. The road can only get better. Soon there won't be enough pavement left to make edges on the potholes.

Sierra San Pedro Martir,
east of El Rosario.

When I saw no lights, and no other cars on the access road, I feared the hotel had been closed by the storm, if not by the potholes. I was relieved when I turned a corner and saw the lights of the hotel. Then, I realized that the parking lot was packed full of cars, and I had no reservation. Luckily, there was still a room available.

The hotel clerk huddled in a dry corner while I filled out my soggy registration card. There was no place to avoid the water that leaked from the ceiling of the lobby, splashed on the counter, ran down my face, soaked my clothes and puddled at my feet. But, the restaurant was open, the shower was hot, the bed was dry, and I slept well that night.

At breakfast the next morning, I tried to get information about the condition of the vados I knew I had to cross later that day. A vado, also known as a "Mexican bridge", is a dip built into the road at dry river crossings, designed to allow the occasional flash flood to wash harmlessly over the pavement.

Vados are usually marked with warning signs, and must be taken seriously if water is present. They must also be taken seriously when water is not present, because not slowing down can mean leaving your transmission at the bottom of the vado.

San Pedro Martir foothills.

Bridges are expensive, and vados are cheap, so Baja has lots of vados and not many bridges. I once teased a Mexican friend that we gringos build our roads to go over the water, not under it. He replied that Mexico builds plenty of bridges, but most of them don't go over the water, they go into the pockets of politicians.

To my relief, a fellow traveler told me the vados were dry, the storm had gone east, not south. He also told me of other times when he had waited for days to cross flooded vados in the desert near Catviña, where I was headed next. He said the tradition in these situations, especially among younger machos, was to drink and party to pass the time while waiting for the rushing waters to recede.

Truck begins long climb over the mountains,
from Catavina westward toward El Rosario.

He claimed he had observed many stranded travelers get drunker and drunker each day that they waited at the water's edge, until they could cross the vado safely. Every few hours they would send out a probe to test the depth and the current. He said he had personally seen a number of probes washed away and lost.

On further questioning, he explained that a "probe" was somebody drunk enough to drive his car into the vado until he either made it across or was swept away by the current. Once a "probe" had safely crossed, other stranded travelers would bravely begin to follow.

When I got back on the highway, the sun was shining. It was dry all the way to El Rosario, the last small town on the Pacific coast before the road, now at its narrowest, turns inland and twists and climbs its way on a stomach-fluttering roller coaster ride over the mountains, and on to Cataviña.

The town of Cataviña is barely a wide spot on the Baja Highway, but its importance to Baja travelers far exceeds its size. This spot is wide enough for the only real motel, and the only reliable source of gasoline, for more than a hundred miles, north or south. Unless you happen to be a cactus, a lizard, a rattlesnake, or perhaps a boojum or an elephant tree, that's a most inhospitable hundred miles. And, unless you are carrying extra fuel (not a bad idea), a stop in Cataviña is all but mandatory.

There are other reasons to visit Cataviña. It is surrounded by some fascinating country, the Desierto Central de Baja California, Baja's unique Central Desert. Much of the desert is under legal protection, to preserve its biological treasures. Hundreds of species of cactus live here, many of them found nowhere else.

Boojums (cirios) in bloom.

The desert is also home to many endemic non-cactus species, including two almost identical looking but unrelated versions of the elephant tree, and the cirio, or boojum, Baja's signature contribution to the world of unusual flora.

The boojum looks like nothing else. It is often described as a giant carrot growing upside down, with its root sticking up to fifty feet in the air. It has a trunk and leaves, but no branches until it's at least a hundred years old, when the trunk divides into two or more whip-like tops. A fifty-year-old specimen might be a foot thick at its base, and less than five feet tall. It's one of the slowest growing plants in the world, at the rate of a foot every ten years, which means a mature fifty-footer may be more than 500 years old.

Elephant tree and boojum.

An Arizona botanist, in 1922, applied the name boojum, after the imaginary "boojum" that inhabited "distant shores" in Lewis Carrol's Hunting of the Snark. The early Spaniards called it cirio, or candle, probably because of its resemblance to the handmade tapers that decorated the altars in the Jesuit mission churches.

After plentiful rainfall, the "candle" sprouts a flame of yellow blossoms at its tip, and its trunk is covered with small green leaves. When water is absent, it sheds all its leaves, to preserve moisture within the trunk. The boojum is abundant in this two hundred mile strip of desert, but the only other place it grows is a small patch at the same latitude across the Sea of Cortez, in the State of Sonora.

Mature cardon and friend.

This is fertile ground for the giant cardón, the world's largest cactus, reaching more than sixty feet tall. The cardón is often mistaken for its smaller northern cousin, the saguaro. In Indian lore, the cardón sometimes took on human attributes and moved around the desert at night when people slept.

These giant cacti may have been an inspiration for the ancient cave paintings of giants in the nearby mountains. Unique varieties of barrel cacti, organ pipe (pitahaya), prickly pear (nopal) and cholla also decorate the landscape, along with yuccas, agaves and rare varieties of ocotillo, a thorny Medusa-head vine distantly related to the cirio.

The seeds, roots, fruits and pulps of many of these plants provided food and water for the indigenous people who survived in the desert for thousands of years before the arrival of the first Europeans. Then as now, some of the woody stalks were used as firewood, and for constructing shelter and fences. Young nopal pads, and pitahaya and several other types of cactus fruit are still popular foods in Baja today.

Catavina Boulder Field.

The Cataviña Boulder Field contributes to this strange landscape. Its hills and valleys of smooth, rounded rocks, ranging in size from marbles to boulders the size of buildings, might be mistaken for glacial deposits. In fact, the rocks were shaped by the wind, blowing like airborne sandpaper across the desert for millions of years. Soil is scarce here, and weird vegetation often appears to be growing right out of the rocks.

The Highway south of Cataviña can be a good place to practice negotiations with the Mexican army. Army checkpoints have become permanent fixtures along the highway in recent years. Although guns seem to be of greater concern to Mexican authorities, these checkpoints were initially set up in response to demands made by the U. S. government over the so-called "War on Drugs".

Some U. S. officials seem to have the idea that, even though they can't control the flow of drugs in their own country, the Mexican government should be able to do it for them in Mexico. Ironically, such searches, without warrants or specific cause, would be constitutionally forbidden in the United States. But, in Baja they are a fact of life, and one learns to take them in stride.

Catavina Boulder Field:
Desert vegetation.

Army checkpoints are among the least pleasant experiences you are likely to encounter when driving the Baja Highway, and encounter them you will, typically at least half a dozen times when driving the length of the peninsula, in either direction.

The soldiers carry automatic rifles and sometimes sidearms, although rumor has it that the government is reluctant to issue them ammunition, due to the army's potential as a threat to the established order. They are often poorly equipped and supplied, and camped along the highway in rather primitive conditions.

Most are kids in their late teens. Mexico requires all its young men to serve a year in the military to earn full citizenship rights, including the right to get a passport to travel outside the country. The soldiers are authorized to search any vehicle. They are usually courteous, but not always well trained.

Catavina Boulder Field:
Cardon, boojum and ocotillo.

Usually, searches are minimal. One of the soldiers will ask a few questions. Usually, but not always, he will speak at least a few words of English. If a search follows, it's typically little more than a token look under the seat and above the visors, and maybe a glance inside the glove compartment and down a door panel. Occasionally, he will ask that a piece of luggage be opened for a cursory look.

But, searches can also be very thorough. The soldiers have all the authority, and they have the guns, so there is little choice but to cooperate. They have been told to be nice to the tourists, and inappropriate demands are rare.

A traveler's appearance and conduct can determine whether a search occurs or not. I have rarely been searched when traveling with my wife, driving a shiny car and dressed like a typical tourist. But, traveling alone, wearing a beard and driving an old Volkswagen camper bus, I was searched at nearly every stop.

Boulder Field cardones; Budding cardon; Cardon in bloom; Cardon sprout.

In the dark desert near Cataviña, I once lost my best flashlight to an army search party. I was alone in the bus, which I had spent a week packing with stuff that my wife was awaiting in San José del Cabo.

It was the first time I had encountered what promised to be a thorough search, and I was in no mood to unpack everything I had so laboriously stuffed into every nook and cranny, only to have to repack it alone on the highway in the middle of the desert with nightfall approaching.

I spoke very little Spanish, and the soldiers spoke even less English. But, they made it clear that they wanted me to open the suitcase stacked on top of the heap in the back of the bus.

The heavy suitcase was packed as full as the bus. I dragged it down onto the road, and popped the latches. The lid flew up by itself from the pressure of the clothes inside, some of which erupted to freedom and scattered along the roadside.

Prickly pear (nopal) cactus; Desert jungle; Spiny staghorn cholla; Cholla in bloom.

One soldier poked the barrel of his assault rifle at the innocent contents of the suitcase, while another was up front, up to his elbow in the travel bag that contained my smelly socks and unwashed underwear.

In the bottom of that bag were several small packages of prescription medication. I had the prescriptions, but they were in my wife's name, not mine, and she was still six hundred miles away. I had no idea what reaction these drugs might provoke if discovered, which was why I stashed them at the bottom of my dirty underwear.

I'll never know if the soldier felt the packages, but he finally pulled his hand out of the bag without comment. I like to think it was the aroma of my socks that discouraged further investigation, but I doubt it.

Barrel cactus; Baby organ pipe (pitahaya) cactus.

I told myself the soldiers were just doing their jobs, but I didn't like it a bit. I tried to strike up conversation, to gain sympathy for my plight as a harmless, law-abiding tourist unduly inconvenienced by an unnecessary search, at the same time bowing and scraping enough to avoid any suggestion that I might be questioning the soldiers' authority. I hoped they might, at least, tire of my bad Spanish and decide further searching wasn't worth the annoyance.

The soldier finished rifling my suitcase, and two others were discussing what to open next. By this time I had passed out a few peanuts and Hershey's kisses. That brought enough smiles to remind me how many poor Mexicans lack adequate dental care. Then the soldier in charge approached, and asked me a question in Spanish.

Last stop.

I had been through enough stops by now to recognize the usual questions: "Where did you come from," and "Where are you going," and "Do you have any guns." This didn't sound like any of those familiar queries. He seemed to be asking if I had a lampara.

I had no idea what a lampara was, or why he wanted to know if I had one, but after several rounds of pantomime it occurred to me to pull the flashlight out of my glove compartment. That brought a big gold-toothed smile to his face, and another question: "Cuanto?" I knew that meant, "How much?" Was he inviting a simple business transaction, or hinting that the gift of a flashlight could bring this search to a happy conclusion?

I figured I had nothing to lose but the flashlight, a small price to avoid unpacking the bus. So, I handed him the lampara and, as graciously as I could, said "Para usted." That was as close as I knew how to say I wanted to make it a gift. He thanked me with what seemed an overly formal "Muchas gracias." He kept the flashlight without any further offer to pay for it, and sent me on my way without any further searching.

Downtown Catavina: A La Pinta hotel,
and the only gas for a hundred miles.

The next time I was stopped at the Cataviña checkpoint, it was after dark, near the end of a long day's drive. I recognized the soldier at my window as the same one who had relieved me of my flashlight a year earlier.

He squinted, trying to look inside my unlighted car. It was late, he looked tired, it had been a long day for him, too.

Finally, he asked another unusual question. My Spanish was a little better by now, and I understood him perfectly: "Do you have any batteries?"

I was exhausted from driving all day, but I wasn't that stupid. I'd be damned if I was going to give him my spare batteries, so he could use my own flashlight to search my car in the dark. So I put on my sincerest "I'd like to help, but..." face, and shook my head. "No," I lied. "No batteries, no guns, no drugs."

He looked more tired than suspicious. Then he smiled. "Ah, and no bad women hiding in the back, eh, señor?" His gold tooth flashed as he laughed at his joke, and waved me on.

The Vizcaíno Desert, named for the Spanish admiral, Sebastián Vizcaíno, who sailed its shores in 1602, stretches across central Baja from the Pacific Ocean to the Sea of Cortez. This is the most desolate region in Baja, thousands of square miles where rain is so scarce that vegetation has learned to get its moisture from the fogs that blow in from the Pacific. Rocky mesas, volcanic cinder cones, and broad plains are scattered with stands of yucca, agave, ocotillo, cirio and cactus.

Snakes, lizards, rodents and birds live here, as do small herds of rare desert pronghorn and bighorn sheep. In the eastern desert, beyond the reach of the fog, life is stunted, scorched and sparse. Guerrero Negro, on the Pacific, and San Ignacio, on the Cortez side of the desert, are the only towns for a hundred miles large enough to have reliable stocks of groceries and gasoline. Guerrero Negro has several hotels, San Ignacio only two.

Desert landscape
north of Guerrero Negro.

Guerrero Negro means Black Warrior, the name of a ship that sank here in 1858, under the weight of its cargo of whale oil. A year earlier, Charles Scammon had entered the local lagoons and begun the slaughter of thousands of gray whales, whose annual migrations brought them here to calve and mate.

Whaling led to the near-extinction of the species early in this century, but intensive protection efforts have restored their numbers. The frolicking giants now put on spectacular shows for thousands of tourists who visit the lagoons every winter.

Aerial views of Guerrero Negro
and saltworks evaporation lagoons.

Guerrero Negro lies just south of the border between the states of Baja California and Baja California Sur (south), where clocks change from Pacific to Mountain time. Ocean breezes keep temperatures pleasant year-round. The town's 10,000 inhabitants are sustained by salt. The local works produce more salt than any other source in the world, more than six million tons per year.

Seawater is channeled from the ocean into hundreds of shallow ponds, where it evaporates quickly under the intense desert sun, leaving behind thick layers of sea salt. Workers scoop the salt onto barges, for delivery to the nearby Island of Cedros, home to Mexico's third largest seaport, which ships nothing but salt. The salt is then loaded onto seagoing vessels for export to tables all over the world.

San Ignacio is an oasis in every sense of the word. It lies nested in a deep arroyo, protected on all sides by high mesas that make it almost invisible from the surrounding desert. To the highway traveler, a crack of incongruous green appears suddenly in the desolate desert floor, and turns out to be the tops of fruit orchards and thousands of date palm trees. Arroyo San Ignacio is a relief to scorched eyeballs.

Yuccas thrive in the western Vizcaino Desert.

The palm trees are descended from an orchard planted by Jesuit missionary Juan Luyando more than two hundred fifty years ago, near the source of the Rio San Ignacio, which emerges as a marsh springing out of the rocky arroyo bottom. The Cochimí Indians called the site kadakaamán, or creek of reeds. The Spaniards dammed the creek to form a small lake that still provides irrigation water for the town's crops and orchards. From this lake, the mostly dry arroyo runs westward across the desert and empties into the Laguna San Ignacio, an inlet of the Pacific Ocean.

Laguna San Ignacio harbors Baja's friendliest whales. The lagoon, fifty miles by dirt road from San Ignacio, is another popular winter tourist site. The whales, especially the inquisitive calves, seem to enjoy humans. They often swim up to the open tourist boats, begging to be petted and scratched, like giant, seagoing puppies.

Environmentalists are engaged in a bitter fight against Japanese corporate interests who want to use the lagoon for a new salt extraction facility, which would be the world's largest, potentially a devastating threat to the whales' calving and breeding waters.

Boojum trees (cirios) add variety
to the strange desert landscape.

The Cochimí Indians occupied the desert when the first Spaniards arrived. The Cochimí often lived on the edge of starvation. To survive during lean times, they dried their own feces after feasting on the annual harvest of pitahaya cactus fruit. When food ran out, they reaped a "second harvest" by sifting pitahaya seeds from their dried excrement. To improve their diet, they were willing even to submit to the authority of Jesuit missionaries.

The abundance of water and willing Indian labor eventually made San Ignacio Kadakaamán the most prosperous mission in Baja. The first church was erected in 1728, and in 1786 the present church was completed on the site. Its four-foot thick walls were built with blocks of local lava rock, without the use of mortar.

Still in use today, the church is the anchor of San Ignacio's town square, and the most impressive of all the Baja mission churches.

Parched desert vegetation
draws moisture from Pacific fogs.

At the mission's peak, as many as 5,000 Cochimí produced fruits, grains, vegetables and livestock. But, the Cochimí met the same tragic fate as most of Baja's native peoples. Lacking immunity to European diseases, their population was devastated by epidemics. There were only about a hundred survivors by the end of the 19th century.

Archaeologists are fighting to save what the Cochimí left behind, including some of the world's most extensive, and least studied and protected, prehistoric cave art. The paintings include abstract symbols and stylized human and animal figures in in red, black, ocher and other colors.

Some appear on inaccessible rock overhangs and cave ceilings more than thirty feet above the ground. A few of the paintings reflect Spanish influence, but the Indians, possibly fearing religious persecution, denied any knowledge of the artists or techniques responsible for the ancient works.

Volcanic cinder cone
in the central Vizcaino Desert.

Thousands of similar paintings and petroglyphs exist throughout Baja, in areas inhabited by several different tribes when the Spaniards arrived. It is but one of Baja's oddities that the ancient sites were publicized in this century by the author of the Perry Mason murder mysteries, Erle Stanley Gardner, who spent many years of his life exploring and writing about them.

Legal visits to the sites require permits or licensed guides. In San Ignacio, one can arrange to visit both whales and cave paintings in a single day trip.

Tortilla and I arrived in San Ignacio after a grueling day's drive across the desert. We had enjoyed a great meal and room at the Hotel La Pinta in San Quintín the night before, our first night ever in Baja, and we were looking forward to the same spoiled gringo luxuries from the equally expensive La Pinta in San Ignacio: a modern hot shower, air conditioning, satellite TV, good food and comfortable beds to soothe our aching backs.

We'd had our adventure for the day, we spoke almost no Spanish, and on this, only our second night on the road in Mexico, finding the best budget hotel was not on the agenda.

Desert landscape near San Ignacio.

We pulled the car off the highway at dusk, and drove the two miles into San Ignacio, amazed and refreshed at the sight of the man-made lake, and the canopy of date palms overhead.

Set among the palms at the edge of town was the La Pinta, looking a bit tired and worn, not as impressive as the San Quintín version, but its handsome neo-colonial arches were a welcome sight. Relieved that the parking lot was nearly empty, we stopped to claim a room. But, the polite desk clerk informed us there were "problems".

The room rate of eighty gringo bucks would not include hot water tonight. But, the clerk was kind enough to call the other hotel in town to learn that, yes, they still had hot water.

So, not without difficulty in our overloaded little car, we picked our way among the sharp boulders protruding from the dirt of the narrow side streets, finally found the unmarked Motel La Posada, and squeezed into the tiny dirt lot that appeared to be for parking.

The proprietor handed us a key, and left us alone to check the room. In the dim light from the bare bulb in the ceiling, we could see peeling paint and a tiny shower stall, with primitive plumbing. The room seemed clean enough. The air conditioning was a small electric floor fan with a frayed cord. The two mushy beds were matched opposites...one mattress was higher at the foot, the other was higher at the head.

At twenty-five bucks the price seemed steep. We decided we could do without hot water. The proprietor seemed not at all surprised when we handed him the key, thanked him, and returned to the La Pinta.

View of Arroyo San Ignacio,
from Highway 1.

Our La Pinta room was smaller than in San Quintín, but it was clean. In fact, it reeked of cleaning solution. There was no balcony with a view. We didn't mind that the TV got only one channel, or that the picture was too snowy to watch. We hadn't come to San Ignacio to watch TV.

We could use the black plastic wastebasket liner to cover the big hole in the window blinds. But, we couldn't start the air conditioner, and when the hotel manager finally got it going, it produced more noise than comfort.

The plumbing leaked, the toilet hissed and dripped, and there was a large puddle on the bathroom floor. A disturbing streak of black soot ran up the wall from the only electrical outlet that would light the bed lamp. The window wouldn't open, so we left the door ajar for air, and locked our bags in the car while we went to dinner.

The hotel food was expensive and barely edible, and the beer was warm. At least, the beds were fairly level, and we were happy to have them, until we discovered that the springs poked through their saggy mattresses. The threadbare sheets would be no protection. And our showers, of course, were cold.

Colonial era buildings
along the San Ignacio town plaza.

After dinner, we strolled into town. The lovely walk beneath the palms and the brilliant stars quickly made us forget our eighty-dollar room at the La Pinta. We had the streets almost to ourselves. The town was quiet, almost asleep. The only restaurant in sight had already closed, and the taco stand on the plaza across from the church was cleaning up for the night.

San Ignacio's nightlife was focused around a battered foosball table set up on the sidewalk next to the taco stand, where some old men sat on a bench, visiting and smoking and watching two teenagers play foosball.

As we enjoyed our peaceful stroll, we noticed two suspicious-looking men lurking in the shadows, taking an obvious interest in us. They kept looking our way, then speaking to one another in low tones. Like most ignorant, first-time gringo travelers in Mexico, we had heard scary stories about bandidos. Now, we braced ourselves for the possibility of meeting the reality, face to face.

Mission San Ignacio Kadakaaman:
Founded 1728, church completed in 1789.

The characters in the shadows had all the appearance of every Mexican bandit we had ever imagined or seen in old cowboy movies. They might have stepped right out of Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

Then it happened. One of the men, the short, round one, started walking slowly toward us, while the other looked on. We kept walking, trying to appear unconcerned, moving steadily up the dimly lighted street, back toward our safe haven at the La Pinta. The short, round one, circled slowly behind us. They had us surrounded. Then he shouted in our direction, "Hola, buenas noches!"

We stopped in our tracks, and the man approached. He was barely five feet tall, and his belly hung over his belt. His shirt was clean, but tattered, frayed at the cuffs and collar, and had but a single button left to hold it together over his belly. Underneath, he wore a tee shirt that would not survive many more washings. His dark, baggy trousers hung loosely over his worn-out boots.

When he got close enough to pick our pockets, he reached toward us with his right hand. We could decipher just enough Spanish to comprehend his greeting. "Good evening," he said. "I am the Chief of Police. Welcome to San Ignacio!"

Dusk in the desert, east of San Ignacio.

The Chief of Police spoke no English at all. But this sweet little man quickly put us at ease, took us under his wing and guided us on a memorable walking tour of San Ignacio. We soon found ways to communicate. He pointed out houses of interest, and told us stories of the people, many of them his relatives and ancestors, who had lived in them.

As we walked, a large, white apparition glided silently between the palms above our heads. "Tecolote", he said, and patiently explained until we understood that this great white owl had lived in these trees for as long as anyone living could remember.

"There is no crime in this town," he said, when we asked about his job. "No criminals, no bad people. All the time, it is very quiet and peaceful here. Muy tranquilo. There are no problems. Maybe a tourist drinks too much, that is all. I take him home, no problem. I have a very good job."

Approaching the mountains
on Highway 1 to Santa Rosalia.

Tortilla explained that we were on our way to live in San José del Cabo, because we thought its dry climate and clean air would be healthy. When he understood our meaning, he expounded on all the home remedies his family knew, effective for every ailment known to medicine. "No rain here," he added, "it is very healthy here, and the air is very clean, the stars are very bright."

In animated tones, he enumerated each of his relatives and friends who had come to live in San Ignacio, and found good health such as they had never before known in their lives.

There was genuine concern in his voice. "After you try the other places, you must come back here and live with us," he insisted. "This is the best place for you to live. There is no place better to live than here."

We would indeed experience the reality of bandidos this night, but not on the streets of San Ignacio. The robbery had already happened, back at the La Pinta, when we paid too much for our room.

At the eastern edge of the Vizcaíno Desert, Highway 1 climbs and winds its way over and around the flanks of a range of dormant volcanoes, their cones rising thousands of feet above the road, and plunging more than six thousand feet from their peaks to the sea. The road plunges likewise, like a roller coaster, through narrow passes, down steep grades and around breathtaking curves. Suddenly, the Sea of Cortez hangs in the air like a blue jewel dangling before your eyes. But, this is no place to take your eyes off the road, nor to count on a guardrail to save you if you've neglected to check your brakes.

The palm trees of Mulege,
viewed from Highway 1.

The final descent from the mountains completes the highway's crossing of the Baja Peninsula, from the Pacific Ocean to the Gulf of California (the unromantic and unpopular official name for the Sea of Cortez).

At the foot of the mountains lies Santa Rosalía, a seaport town of some ten thousand people, tying the highway to the northern end of a 150-mile scenic drive along the central Cortez coastline. From here, cars, trucks and passengers can also take an eight-hour ferry trip to Guaymas, on the Mexican mainland.

Baja is full of surprises, and Santa Rosalía has its share. The town was built in the 1880's, not by Spaniards or Mexicans, but by the French mining company, El Boleo, a business subsidiary of the Rothschild family.

El Boleo ran a copper mining and smelting operation here until1954, when the Mexican government took it over, finally shutting it down three decades later when widespread arsenic poisoning became evident in the local population. The smelter complex still looms above the highway, dominating the waterfront.

Squareriggers hauled coal and coke from Europe to fuel the smelters well into the 20th century, making Santa Rosalía one of the world's last outposts in the age of sail.

View of Bahia Concepcion,
from Coyote Bay.

Wood is scarce in Baja, but most of the town's older houses are built of lumber, shipped south from Oregon and Washington on the barges that delivered cargoes of smelted ore to refineries in the Pacific Northwest.

The town's church, prefabricated from galvanized iron, was designed by Alexandre Gustave Eiffel for use in tropical Africa. It was first displayed at the 1889 Paris World Fair, alongside the Eiffel Tower. A Boleo official found the church stored in pieces, bought it, shipped it, and had it re-assembled for use by Boleo employees.

The best baguettes in Baja are said to come from the local bakery. And, the gas pumps at Santa Rosalía's Pemex station are reputed to be the most dishonest in all of Baja, although that claim is open to question.

The small town of Mulegé, about an hour south on Highway 1, is more in the tradition of a Mexican beach resort. Its palm-lined estuary, narrow, unpaved streets, and miles of nearby beaches make it an attractive stop for tourists and expatriates looking for unsurpassed fishing, diving and leisurely living.

Although north of the Tropic of Cancer, Mulegé has the tropical ambience of southern Baja, with pleasant, sunny winters and hot, humid summers. Services are limited, and things move slowly in Mulegé.

The only bank in town closed its doors some years ago, promising to reopen after the streets were paved. The town is waiting to pave its streets, until after the bank reopens.

Views of Bahia Concepcion.

Late one night, I reached San Ignacio after driving all day from San Quintín in my overloaded Volkswagen bus. But, I was determined to bypass San Ignacio's overpriced La Pinta, and try for the popular and more reasonable El Morro, a nice hotel set on a bluff above the beach just south of Santa Rosalía.

When I got there, its lights were out. It was closed, for no apparent reason. Reluctant to backtrack, I pushed on in the dark to take my chances in Mulegé. After a frustrating time negotiating Mulegé's maze of narrow one-way streets, fearing for my squished tires as they bounced along the ruts from rock to pothole, I found a place to park and struck out on foot.

Within half an hour, I had covered the whole town. I found only one available room, at the Las Terrazas Hotel. For twenty dollars, the room was large and airy and quiet, spotless but for peeling paint, air conditioned, well furnished, with hot water and modern plumbing. I had my choice of two beds, and both were comfortable.

There was secure parking for the loaded bus. Outside my door was a large terrace with a view of Mulegé. Downstairs was a cozy bar, where a friendly patron insisted on buying me a cold Negra Modelo. The bartender directed me to the best steak and seafood dinner in town, a delicious bargain. I slept well that night.

Dust devil near Loreto.

My next visit was not so pleasant. I was cruising along in my car, faster than I should have been, but it was a sunny afternoon, and traffic was light as I approached Mulegé. The road was in excellent shape, and fifty miles per hour did not seem excessive.

As I rounded the last gentle downhill curve south of town, I was suddenly facing one of the largest topes I had ever seen. This unexpected speed bump was the size of a tree trunk, newly laid across the highway, and unmarked.

I braked, but there was no time to stop. The car crashed over the bump, but kept rolling as my head hit the roof. I felt lucky not to have broken an axle, or worse. Unmarked topes are an ever-present hazard on the Baja Highway, and the marked ones are bad enough.

Loreto beach view.

A beautiful two-hour drive takes the southbound traveler to the banks of Conception Bay, a spectacular body of water that extends along the Cortez coastline for more than thirty miles south of Mulegé.

Sheltered from the Sea of Cortez by the long arm of Peninsula Concepción, the bay, unpolluted by any major cities or industries, is said to be among the cleanest in the world, and it teems with aquatic life. However, its pristine qualities are threatened by its popularity among RV enthusiasts, campers, kayakers and sport fishermen, and many of its more accessible beaches are crowded with tourists during the winter season.

Cameras cannot capture the blueness of the bay. The blues shine in every shade, rimmed with white beaches and lavender headlands that bristle with forests of giant cardón cactus. The water's surface, rippled with patches of breeze, is punctured from below by dozens of cactus-whiskered islands.

Loreto: Head and Mother of the Missions of Lower and Upper California.

South of the bay is Loreto, a small but growing center for fishing and tourism, with modern markets and shops, vacation housing developments, two Pemex stations and a variety of hotels and restaurants.

On the coast just south of Loreto are Nopoló and Puerto Escondido, which the Mexican tourist agency Fonatur is attempting to develop along the lines of the resort zones in Cancún and Los Cabos. Loreto, however, is no recent development.

After 167 years of failed attempts, the first permanent European settlement in the Californias was established at Loreto in 1697, by Jesuit priest and explorer Juan María Salvatierra.

It was from here that Franciscan Padre Junipero Serra set out in 1769 on his northward journey to San Diego Bay in Alta California, where he founded the first of his famous string of mainland "California" missions. Loreto served as the capital of all the Californias until 1829, when hurricane floods destroyed most of the town, forcing relocation of the capital to La Paz.

The mission church was one of the few structures to survive the storm. It has been fully restored, and is still in use today. An inscription above its entrance proclaims the Loreto mission as "Head and Mother of the Missions of Lower and Upper California."

Highway 1, south of Loreto.

South of Loreto, the highway is smooth and narrow, running overland in long, straight stretches, then snaking back again across the headlands, twisting, rising and falling, high above the turquoise panorama, then back again to water's edge, before finally turning inland to climb the Sierra de la Giganta on its way to Ciudad Constitución and La Paz.

This is also where a new kind of Mexican troop had decided to set up today's roadblock. This time it was customs agents, rising to the bait of a bearded gringo in an old VW hippie wagon.

First, they want to know, "What's that?", pointing at the TV set wrapped in a blanket and belted into the passenger's seat. Then, where am I going and why, and what am I packing, and is it staying in Mexico and do I have customs papers.

So, I lie and tell them that the customs inspectors looked at everything in Tijuana, and said all I had to declare was my computer (which was in fact the one thing I did declare in Tijuana, so I would at least have a piece of paper to show, should a situation like this arise).

I show them my customs receipt for the sixty dollars I paid to Hacienda (the Mexican I.R.S.) back in Tijuana. The English-speaking one examines the receipt, frowns and snaps, "Do you have a fax?" and I say, "No, no fax." Looking disappointed, he pokes his eyes through the windows one more time, hands back my papers and waves me on.

Foothills of the Sierra de la Giganta.

Realizing I'm low on gas, and finding myself on the wrong side of Loreto, I ask how far to the next Pemex station. About an hour and forty-five minutes, he says. So I ask, can I pull over on the wide shoulder ahead and empty the gas cans strapped to my roof into my tank. He says, "Why not," as if, what a foolish question, of course I can pull over and fill my tank.

Then, within minutes, the cans barely untied and not half emptied, one of the rifle-toting agents walks across the highway to inform me that the approaching tanker truck wants to "work" where I'm parked, so I tell him I'll hurry and move.

Rest stop south of Loreto.

Before either of us can move, the tanker truck pulls around us on the wide shoulder and with something like a fire hose proceeds to spray what I hope is only water to dampen the dust, sprays water on the dusty shoulder, and on the lower third of the bus, and on the rifle-toting customs agent, and on me, splattering our legs with what is, yes, only water, fresh water, it seems, from the taste of the splash on my face.

The startled customs agent thrusts his automatic rifle with both hands high above his head, jumps and howls like a child caught by an unexpected lawn sprinkler.

The tanker truck proceeds back onto the highway, and the water it sprayed on the dusty shoulder and on our legs is dried and reunited with the soft atmosphere of the Baja noonday before the truck has lumbered out of sight.

In Baja, the work is never done. This fact will remain, so long as road crews spray water on roadsides in the tropical noonday sun to settle the dust. Sooner or later, all human effort returns to dust. Why pretend otherwise?

Why not just sprinkle a little water on the dust now and then, if only to anoint the truth of the matter. And anointing it is, the spraying of fresh water on a dusty desert roadside in the Baja noonday sun, for in Baja, nothing is more precious than water, or more common than dust.

Sea of Cortez islands,
from the Sierra de la Giganta.

Meanwhile, long before such deep thoughts could gather in my dusty brain, the customs agents with their automatic rifles have waved through a mile-long caravan of shiny, behemoth RV's, without so much as a glance or a question to the gringos inside, and now the one who speaks English is asking me how much it would cost to buy a combi, a VW bus like mine, "with the house built inside it."

His friend would like to buy one some day. I tell him mine is nothing special, it cost me only fifteen hundred U. S. dollars. He translates to his friend, and nods thoughtfully as he rubs the well-worn butt of his rifle, as if it were his chin.

"My combi is very old," I add, "and not very fancy."

"Ah, yes," says the thoughtful one, "but it is very good."

I can see that they are no longer customs agents, but teenagers with fantasies of taking to the open road. I hand them half a bag of Hershey's chocolate kisses, which they eagerly accept, bid them adiós, and head on toward the cactus covered mountains, climbing into the afternoon sun.

Tortilla and I
had overloaded the '74 Volkswagen bus once again with our worldly belongings, and we were headed north, bidding our adiós to San José del Cabo. We skirted the edge of town on the four-lane, past the Uniroyal shop where yesterday my paranoia, or perhaps good sense, had resulted in two expensive new rear tires to match the front ones. We rolled through the new stoplights alongside all the local drivers in their big Mexican hurries, jumping the lights as if they had been outsmarting stoplights all their lives and not for just a few weeks, jumping the red lights before they turned green, rushing wherever they were going to resume whatever they were doing at their usual snail's pace. We rolled to the end of the four-lane and past the airport, and we were off to La Paz and beyond.

View of La Paz Bay and the malecon.

Testing tires and motor and load, cruising at fifty, then at sixty, even coasting down long inclines from time to time at sixty-five or seventy miles per hour, and all seems well. So far, so good, as we roll past Santiago in the muggy heat, and past the big white ball that marks the Tropic of Cancer where it crosses our road as we roll from the end of the earth northward toward the gringo border.

All is well as we stop in Los Barriles to top off the gas tank and check the tire temperatures at a handy Pemex station. No problem climbing the steep hills to the summit of the Laguna mountains, where we stop at our favorite turnout to stretch our legs and pee in the hot sand behind the bushes.

Rolling out of the mountains and across the plain to meet the main highway from Todos Santos to La Paz, no problem spotting the hidden sign for the cutoff road to Ciudad Constitución, slipping unobstructed past the congestion of La Paz and rejoining the highway north of the city. We were on our way.

Fishermen in the shallows of La Paz Bay.

We hoped to find our next gas at the Pemex station at El Centenario, a few miles past La Paz, so we could avoid La Paz traffic, and the gas pump at El Cien. El Cien, named for its distance from La Paz, exactly 100 kilometers (62.5 miles), is a small cafe and the only Pemex station in the 134 miles of desert between La Paz and Constitución.

The last time I had stopped at El Cien, the dials were not working on the one working gas pump. I had to trust the corpulent pump operator to come up with the correct amount owed, by some mysterious manipulations of a calculator and a pencil that worked figures on a dog-eared pad he was reluctant to let me see.

We had agreed on an amount, and he owed me 130 pesos in change for my 200 peso note. Judging me an even dumber gringo than I was, he handed me a fifty peso note, and offered no more. When I put my hand out for the rest, he had grudgingly peeled another fifty off the giant wad in his pocket.

I had to stick my hand out twice more before he finally coughed up all my change, then he tried to get it back by peddling a handful of local petrified shark teeth from another pocket. He had not been pleased when I told him he could keep his shark teeth, and I would keep my change.

Federales stroll and snack
in waterfront park.

We pulled into the Pemex at El Centenario, but it was overgrown with desert weeds, its pumps askew, windows boarded or broken, and indeed it was abandoned. Rather than backtrack into La Paz for gas, we decided to deal with El Cien's portly peddler of petrol and petrified shark teeth, when we got there. We rolled back onto the highway in the high heat of the afternoon.

Then a red flash from the dashboard caught my eye. Then it was blinking red, and then the oil light blinked on and stayed on, and there was no denying it, our chronic oil leak had blown itself open and we were dead in the water, becalmed in the desert ten miles past La Paz.

So, we took a deep breath, ate the sandwiches we had packed for lunch, drew deep drafts from our jug of cold water, wiped the sweat from our brows and walked back in the hot sun to survey the damage in the engine compartment. Oil, oil everywhere, and not a damn drop where it should be. I poured in two fresh quarts from our onboard stock, and when they barely registered on the dipstick, I poured in another quart.

We limped slowly back to La Paz, thankful to lose only another quart of oil on the way, thankful indeed, that we were near La Paz when the red light came on, and not another fifty miles out in the middle of the empty desert.

This delay in our trip could be long and expensive, but maybe not fatal. We had bought the bus because we knew vintage VW parts were available in this neck of the world, and good mechanics were not hard to find. Now, all we had to do was find one.

Water truck makes deliveries
in downtown La Paz.

We found a place to park by the waterfront, an area of town familiar to us from previous visits, near the gringo-friendly tourist zone where we thought we could ask around and maybe locate a mechanic.

Our luck held out, as we got a strong recommendation from a waiter at our favorite restaurant, who said we should ask for Rogelio, the best VW man in town. We soon located his shop, tucked away on a side street in a nearby residential area.

Rogelio was a bright, energetic man who moved quickly and efficiently around his busy but tidy shop, instructing his crew between phone calls, and he spoke excellent English. He found a moment to greet us, with a warm handshake and a wide smile, as if we were invited guests.

More important, he inspired us with some confidence when he opened the engine compartment in the rear of the bus, instantly diagnosed our blown main oil seal, and said he could fix it, no problem.

Portrait of Calafia,
in historic Government House.

Only problem was, he was very busy, and could not get to the job before Saturday, and this was only Wednesday. But, he told us where to find the best twenty-five dollar hotel room in town, with secure parking to protect our packed possessions. We were not disappointed.

Conveniently located near the waterfront, our second-floor room was spacious and clean, with excellent beds, modern plumbing, air conditioning that worked, TV, a view of the bay across the rooftops, a pleasant cafe downstairs, and, off our expansive terrace, a large courtyard pool being enjoyed by some happy hotel guests.

Hotel Las Gardenias was showing its age, but was evidently one of the premier accommodations in town in its heyday, and still comfortable, quiet, and more than adequate for our unscheduled stopover in La Paz.

We spent three enjoyable days, relaxing and exploring the neighborhood. Most places of interest are clustered within a few blocks of the waterfront, making La Paz an easy city to explore on foot, with the feel of a small town despite its population of more than 150,000.

The city is a favorite resort for mainland Mexicans, as well as foreign tourists, and also home to a few thousand gringo expatriates. With its turquoise bay, soft breezes, pastel sunsets, friendly people, reasonable prices, leisurely pace and tranquil atmosphere, La Paz lives up to its name: Peace.

Cathedral of Our Lady of La Paz.

Bahia de La Paz, the Bay of Peace, was named in 1596, by the same Admiral Sebastián Vizcaíno whose own name still sticks to the desert he later explored. Vizcaíno met with a friendlier reception at the Bay of Peace than did earlier explorers.

When Vizcaíno arrived, the Indians were in good humor, celebrating the annual harvest of the pitahaya cactus fruit, which also saved his crew from scurvy. In 1602, sailing from La Paz Bay, Vizcaíno rounded Cape San Lucas at Baja's southern tip, and sailed up the Pacific coast, past the Vizcaíno Peninsula, all the way to the Mendocino area, north of present-day San Francisco, California.

He was among the first Europeans to explore the coasts of both Baja and Alta California, following the route taken fifty years earlier by Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo.

In 1533, conquístador Hernan Cortés had sent the ship Concepción to explore the sea that now bears his name. In 1534, Basque mutineer Fortún Jiménez seized the ship and executed its captain, Diego Becerra.

Jiménez and 22 of his crewmen were the first Europeans to land at La Paz. A few days later, while collecting fresh water from a spring, they were massacred by Pericú Indians.

Survivors on the ship brought back tales of the magnificent bay full of pearl oysters, and, ever on the lookout for riches, Cortés himself led an expedition to the bay in 1535. He founded a tiny settlement near Pichilingue (the present ferry terminal), but, with its limited supplies, it lasted only two years in the harsh desert.

It was another sixty years before the next European, Vizcaíno, disturbed the peace of the bay.

Murals, La Paz Museum of Anthropology.

Our own exploration of La Paz also began along the bay, near our hotel. We strolled a few short blocks to the malecón, a picturesque beachfront promenade lined with palm trees, parks, hotels, shops and restaurants, all facing the bay, a grand, turquoise reflecting pool for the city's famous sunsets.

Nearby streets are filled with more excellent restaurants, historical buildings, shops and shoppers, many drawn by southern Baja's largest department stores, Dorian's and Perla de La Paz.

A few blocks away is the town plaza, a tree-shaded park watched over by the Cathedral of Our Lady of La Paz, built in 1861 on the site of the original mission church. Nearby are the large municipal market, the Museum of Anthropology, a historical library and a cultural center featuring the Teatro de la Ciudad (City Theater), which hosts the La Paz Symphony and a variety of stage productions.

La Paz is also home to the University of Baja California Sur and the Technological Institute of La Paz, which specializes in the study of fisheries, using the world's most productive fishery, the Sea of Cortez, as its laboratory.

Residential street in La Paz.

Early on the morning of the third day, I drove the oil-trailing bus from our hotel parking lot to Rogelio's VW shop. There was no sign of life when I arrived at ten minutes before eight. I was supposed to be there at eight o'clock.

I was not surprised to find nobody there. After all, this was Mexico, where appointments are often suggestions and wishful thinking, not commitments. The shop might not be open for another hour or two. If we ever got back on the road at all, I would count my blessings.

But, within minutes, the crew of mechanics started showing up, and within a few minutes more, the bus was hoisted on a lift, and three mechanics were busy extracting the engine from its compartment in the rear of the bus.

Approaching La Paz Bay
from residential neighborhood.

While I waited for Rogelio to arrive, I noticed the walls of his office were papered with postcards and letters, from all over the world. All from satisfied customers, including several well-known Baja race drivers.

As I chatted with the stream of clients passing through the shop, I soon learned that Rogelio Vázquez was known throughout North America as one of the finest master mechanics in the business.

That explained not only the correspondence on his walls, but also the impressive-looking customized VW's in his shop, some with motors almost as large as the beetles themselves, bristling with chromed pipes and booming like thunder whenever a mechanic started one up.

I felt more confident than ever about getting the bus back on the road, but plenty apprehensive about the size of the bill to expect from so renowned a mechanic as Rogelio.

Bayfront scenes: Students; Pedestrian pier; Young love; Divers.

An hour later, Rogelio arrived and assured me the job would be done by this afternoon. In the course of our brief, friendly visits as he busily supervised the shop throughout the morning, he mentioned that he and his family would be leaving tomorrow for a trip to San Diego, and maybe we would see them on the road.

When I commented on all the cards and letters on the wall, he modestly mentioned that a gringo investor had recently offered him a sizeable fortune to become his partner and move his shop to Cabo San Lucas. Rogelio had declined the offer. "I belong to La Paz," he said. "I love La Paz. Money is not the most important thing."

The bus was ready right on time. Rogelio assured me that everything was fixed, including things I hadn't asked for, it was in excellent shape, and should give us no more problems with leaking oil. I braced myself for the bill.

For pulling the motor, taking it apart, replacing the necessary seals, putting it all back together again and replacing various other items, each of which Rogelio had carefully itemized for me in both Spanish and English, including parts and seven hours labor by his team of mechanics: a grand total of 1,012 pesos, or less than a hundred U.S. dollars.

And no charge for finding us a good hotel and providing an excuse for a thoroughly enjoyable three-day vacation in La Paz.

Golden moment on the bay.

We decided to enjoy one more night in the City of Peace, using the excuse that it might be prudent to take the bus for a test drive before heading back up the highway, just in case.

We drove the length of the Pichilingue Peninsula, the thumb of land that encircles La Paz Bay on the east, past the ferry docks to Punta Balandra and Tecolote Beach, a forty-mile round trip scenic drive. This is where La Paz residents go when they go to the beach. We were back at the hotel before sunset, and, for the first time in three years, there was not a drop of oil on the pavement beneath the bus after we parked.

For dinner, we returned for a second time to the Dragon Chinese restaurant, and stuffed ourselves with plates piled high with the best spicy shrimp we've ever eaten, at a fraction of the prices we were used to.

Sunset on Bahia de La Paz: The malecon; Waterfront park; Harbor; Sailboat.

Early the next morning, after another excellent three-dollar breakfast for two at the cafe downstairs from our room, we finally got the tank of gas we were looking for earlier in the week, at the Pemex station five blocks up the street from our hotel.

We wouldn't have to contend with the shark with the petrified teeth in El Cien after all. We made good time across the sandy desert to Ciudad Constitución, southern Baja's third largest city.

Constitución is a town with very little history. It was built in the 1950's as a marketing center for produce from the fertile, but only recently irrigated, Magdalena Plain. Despite its population of around 40,000, this less than photogenic strip town has little appeal for tourists, except as a jumping-off point for whale watching at Magdalena Bay, on the nearby Pacific coast.

With the twin jewels of La Paz and Loreto within a couple of hours drive in either direction, it's no wonder most travelers stop here only for gas, passing through the featureless agricultural plains without much notice, taking advantage of the long, straight stretches of highway to make time for more attractive destinations.

We stopped twice in Constitución on this trip, once at each of the fancy new Pemex stations. The first one, with its dozens of shiny new pumps, wasn't pumping any gas.

Pichilingue Peninsula: La Paz across the bay; Punta Balandra; Tecolote Beach; Espiritu Santo Island.

On the way out of Constitución, we were reminded of the fragility of life in this desert peninsula, and in general. We were slowed by a roadblock, and as we rolled slowly past, we saw police cars and an ambulance.

Lying in the road was the body of a small woman or child, covered with a white sheet, except for two little feet resting near the yellow line in the center of the road. Nearby was a small crowd of people, some of them quietly crying.

The highway that brings life to this remote land can also take it away. We thought of the countless little shrines we have seen along the road, almost always freshly decorated with flowers, in the memory of loved ones lost to the Baja Highway.

Leaving Constitución behind, we were soon sailing eastward across the flat Magdalena Plain, toward the Sierra de la Giganta. Suddenly, a car passed us, its driver honking and waving.

It slowed in front of us, and sped up again, then slowed and sped up, and slowed again. Then we recognized the gray Audi as one we had seen the day before. It was driven by our mechanic and new friend, Rogelio Vázquez!

We waved back in recognition, prompting a whole car full of friendly waves from Rogelio and his entire family, and they sped on ahead of us toward their vacation in San Diego.