km 9945
"Aprieta el boton!"
Which button, I asked.
Aquele de aya (that one over there) said the border official, pointing to a button in a post to my left on the walkway. When I pushed the button a light went on, on something that resembled a mini-traffic light.
-park the bike aside, I need to check your bags, he said.
where are you going, the man asked in a casual and indifferent tone.
-La Paz.
La Paz? En bicicleta? really?
I decided to omit that La Paz, a city to the south of Baja California (1500 km south of Tijuana) was only a small percentage of this journey, because I thought he wouldn´t believe me if I said that, my final destination was Ushuaia in Argentina, the southernmost town on the planet.
While I was answering his many questions about my trip, a few people where passing without "aprietar el botton" and I was closing my panniers again, as he show no interest in seen its contents. Bienvenido a Mexico, the man said with a friendly smile. I followed the walkway parallel to the customs road, and after a short walk, I found myself in the middle of a square full of yellow taxis. Only then I realised that we where already in Mexican territory and no one asked us for our passports. In one of the corners of the square of yellow taxis there was a small stall selling newspaper, magazines, cigarettes, fruit, souvenirs, and everything else the owner could fit inside and that could be transformed into dollars with the gringos that where passing by. I asked where I could stamp my passport. From inside the small cubicle, a man pointed me to the other side of a pedestrian bridge. Sheila stayed with the bikes (yes, after some debate with herself, she decided to cross the border with me and Bernardo) I went over the bridge and asked again, a señor indicated me that what I was looking for was on the other side of the bridge I just came from. I crossed the bridge once again, and when I asked once more where I could stamp my passport and someone else indicated me the other side of the bridge, I stated to desperate, and had almost decided to continue my journey without any stamp, when the señor that from the other side indicated me this side of the bridge, walked over, and said he would take me to the "oficina de aduana", that was after all, UNDER the bridge. I guess I would have to revise my Spanish skills I learnt with my ex Colombian girl friend.
I filled up a form and with 20 dollars I bought an authorisation to remain in the country for 180 days, more then I needed, to a man that spent all his time I was in the office talking to someone on his mobile phone, and that stamped the form and not the passport!!
concluded the formalities, we called Adolfo, that agreed to met us in an hour in the arc of "la revolution" in the center of the chaotic city of Tijuana. On the surrounding hills to the north one could see the imposing barbered wire fence that extended into the horizon and disappeared beyond the mountains, and that separated the 2 Californias, like if it was a gigantic dam stopping the flow of untreated water (millions of illegal immigrants) into the United States. The few who can make it ( an estimated 36 million) are a very important source or income to their families and to the Mexican economy indeed ( emigration is the 3rd biggest source of income of the nation) On the other side the illegal emigrants are viewed as a cheap source of labour keeping the American economy healthy and competitive, with the American government turning a blind eye, or at least not doing enough.
On the American side the landscape is naked, undressed of any vegetation or buildings, and id constantly supervised by American helicopters, on the south side, the houses of the massive city of Tijuana, climb the hills, stopping just a few meters away from the fence.
2 and half hours later Adolfo arrives.
Adolfo was our contact in Tijuana, we meet him over the Internet and his site of cyclist www.rodandoenbaja.com . 23 years old, student of medicine and aficionado to cycling, Adolfo, against his parents worries, decided to make use of his university holidays, and the ride from the "gringos" to fulfill his most recent ambitious: to cycle the 1500 km of the trans peninsular highway Mex1, from Tijuana to the far way town of La Paz,at the end of the peninsula, doing what must be one of the great desert rides of the American continent.
Next day, early morning, after an introduction to Mexican gastronomy, with a breakfast made of "frijoles refritos" (beans puree), tortillas and stew made of meat and potatoes, full bellied we said good bye to Adolfo´s parents, Roberto and Analilia, and hit the dusty road south. It was our first day of cycling in Mexico, and we had all our senses on alert, entertained with the great contrasts with its neighbour to the north. The most alert of all seemed to be Sheila that used with smooth asphalts, wide shoulders and a relatively organized traffic, could not hide her stress when faced with the reality of the Mexican roads. Bernardo was the first to have a taste of the Latin roads, when, in a moment of lack of concentration, his front wheel hit a unmarked hole on the road, and flew over into the hot asphalt, spreading all the contents of his hand bar bag all over the place.Lucky him that the truck driver that approached the scene, break with the necessary efficiency to avoid an accident. We have been one an hour on the Mexican roads, time enough to found out that the ride, from now on, would be a different one. It was only after Ensenada, a city 100 km to the south that receives "only" 4 million "gringos" (Americans) every year, that the trans peninsular Mex 1 took us to a Mexico a bit more authentic.
We stop on the 24th of December in the small Town of San Quittin, to buy food for Christmas Eve. We all had agreed that I would cook something Portuguese "Bacalhau com todos", in fact a fish called Bonita, and even found "real" olive oil at 10 euros for a Small bottle (a steal!).
In a country full of sun, where the rigors of the winter are unknown, Christmas is celebrated in a different fashion from Portugal or Europe. As the is no chimneys, Santa Claus is deprived of her legitimated and ash covered entrance through the roofs of the Mexican houses and the immemorial costume of hanging the up stocking is unknown to the Mexican children. However, on their own way, they also have fun.
On Christmas day we left the Pacific coast beyond, and started the climb to the arid and dry mountains of the interior.. My bike computer showed 36 degrees under the midday sun, and drops of sweat run down my face and into the hot asphalt. The green and humid landscapes of northern California, just over a month ago, seemed to make part of another trip. not only thousands of miles away but also of a distant past. The desert landscape was fascinating, changing with everyday cycled, with every valley crossed, with every hour on the saddle. Unlike the cold flat and monotonous high desert of Oregon (USA), here the desert landscape is filled with cactus, trees of the desert, birds like vultures, Cara-Cara and road runners, or rattle snakes, scorpions and coyotes. The sunset and sunrise are almost magical, with the enigmatic cactus of the Mexican desert in the horizon: The Cardón, that can reach up to 20 meters high. Cirios, is another type of cactus, in fact, a tree, that looks more like a giant green carrot, planted up side down.
The distances between villages can be over 100 km, and water is always a concern. We travel with 3/4 liters of water each, refiling as we go along. On the 3rd day of our desert crossing from the Pacific ocean to the sea of Cortes, we had planed to refill the bottles in "El Progresso", signaled in my map as a small village, and the last place for water that day. El progresso, was only a single family ranch, and had no water. We had only 6 liters of water for the 4 of us, that would have to last the rest of that day, cook dinner, breakfast next morning, and for the 40 km to the next village. We decided that that evening we would not use water to wash not even the face. After dinner I was criticized by Sheila, when I decided to make a coffee!
Bahia de los Angeles was our chosen place for the new year. We where thinking of it already for a few days and where looking forward to see the sea again. When we arrived at the village, we had a surprise waiting for us: Adolfo's parents. Worried by the lack of news from their son, they decided to make by car the 500 that separate Tijuana from Bahia de Los Angele's, alerting along the away police, ranch owners, military and even posting notes of appeal on the Internet. The days that followed in the bahia and on our way south, we where stop bu several people showing their concerns. But that didn´t stop Adolfo from continuing.
After the great success of Christmas Eve dinner, we decided to repeat the dose, this time with a 2 kilo shark , that cost less then 3 euros, in our "palapa" (a hut made of dry palm leaves) by the sea of Cortes, and joining the party we had a young American couple and Jeff, another world nomad cyclist also on his way "south". After the "tubaron a portuguesa) served with a bottle of rum anejo (tequila and cyclist don´t go together as I experienced in the past), and finished the night in the village party, where all the locals where (with some gringos thrown in) and inhibitions lost, gave my first introductory steeps to the Mexican dance.
The village of los angeles is situated 66 km east of the trans peninsular Mex1, the main road in Baja crossing the peninsula from top to bottom. the peaceful bay is protected by rocky and naked mountains and like many other bahias in Baja can´t avoid the "gringo" tourism on their RV´s(recreational vehicle),
and the nights spent in the desert around a camp fire have been the best way to alienate ourselves from that neo-tourism colonization, and fell a bit better the beauty of this arid but awesome peninsula.
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa, in Bahia de los Angeles, Baja, Mexico
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