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Wednesday, 12 August 2009

Farther Down The Road

The run south is the same as ever... and completely different.

By Rusty Long - As seen on Surfing Magazine September 2009 issue.

Further Down the RoadWe always cross at dawn. Something about these twilight hours invokes deeper thought, makes us feel more alive. The gripping sight of Tijuana blistering a smoldering canvas of purples and pinks. The stark black silhouette of the distant mountain. The border approaching.

To get Insurance or not? It's cheap for the old truck. If it goes adios, we might actually come out on top. We've even thought about making it go adios - leaving it with some fisherman deep down. But money hasn't gotten that tight yet.

We ask the old woman at the insurance shop if many gringos have come through. "Almost none", she answers. People are scared these days: pig flu and cartel business, amplified by the media frenzy. It's an unsettled moment in history, but that doesn't change the surf.

The freeway ends and or truck creeps through the gate. Mexico. Red or green light? What does it matter? Say hello if it's red, drive on through if it's green. The taste of liberation is in our mouths. A weight is lifting.
Green light. "I told you", says Pancho fro the passenger seat. "When you roll slow it's always green".

Responsibilities fade behind us. Back to basics: warm desert air, clean ocean water. Starry nights. Simple food. A bottle of Corralejo. There's no real plan, just to start driving and run with it. Down through Baja. A ferry from La Paz to Topolobampo. Big beachies and real barrels. Anything seems possible.

Life is just the truck now, and in the truck it's only the essentials: a stove and some cooking supplies, espresso pot and coffee, ice chest, surf gear, fishing poles, tent and sleeping bags... though Pancho rarely uses one of those. Depends on how much Tecate we pick up. He got his old man's blood - swallows ‘em down quick, which sometimes leaves him nestled him on the desert floor.

"First time I came down here was with your old dad when I was eight", says Pancho. "I told you tht story before, yeah?" I wasn't on that one; still too young.

"Yeah you have. He said you were a con artist."

"I was his beer opener. That's when I got hooked on surfing. Sand Points. Catching all sorts of fish. You had some good ones back then too, eh?"

"Ah yeah, getting to hang out with Rodrigo, going on desert walks, learning how to survive off the desert plans - century nectar, pattaya. Scorps for months ata time. Hanging with the Mexican kids."

Memories and potholes and dirt roads and...

Morning light ours into Tijuana valley. The jigsaw matrix of shantytown slums looks almost beautiful from a distance. But TJ is a border town - barely Mexico at all. Just the rough edge where two cultures grind against each other. Beyond this man-made vision, things change. Liberation come with the territory. Too bad it's not that way for everyone these days. There's crazy stuff going on around the borders, but if you're not looking for trouble, trouble probably won't be looking for you. No flashing expensive stuff, no late-night driving, no hanging around in shady places. Just go surfing.

As we pass places where visiting surfers have recently been mugged, molested or worse, we can't help but talk about the situation. The drug cartel business has gone from bad to worse. Orderly corruption has given away to chaotic violence. The blame lies on both sides of the border, as does the solution. Supply and demand. The good ol' War on Drugs.

"I've got this one friend, Clara," Pancho tells me. "She had a good analogy for all of this: The hornets nest was stirred and now the hornets are stinging."

"Yeah, shame there's so much fear and paranoia about Baja now. Of course, lineups are empty... no, but I'm not that greedy."

We reach the coast and continue on in silence, our eyes fixed on the water. A short interval swell is running. The moon is full and already have a spot in mind. Rounding the bend at Calafia, the monstrous complexes stand empty, half completed. Ghastly postcards from the recent Real Estate boom, indicative of Baja's stalled evolution.

"Hey Rusty, click on Depeche Mode, ‘Personal Jesus'." I do, and the old speakers spit out flat, static vibrations to the beat.

Your own, personal, Jesus... someone to be your prayers, someone who cares...

"Ha, ha, yeeeah," Pancho cackles. "Check the hill!"  A massive Jesus statue looms over the reef-strewn coast, glimmering with ethereal light in the morning sun. "You know the story behind that Rusty?"

"Nah, what is it?"

"There was this dying old man that had a bunch of cash from some land deals or something, and his final wish was to have that statue constructed and put right there. Incredible, eh?"

Not that incredible, I think. Just another Hail Mary on heaven's one-yard line.

Farther down the road we turn off the highway at a wide open beach that sucks in the swell. Invigorated by the sight of the waves, we jump out of the car and start pulling on wetsuits. We're ranting now.

"Six-foot high tide, little wind swell, inside bars... precisely as I thought ," Pancho mutters. "Our own personal France south of the border... I had such an epic day here a couple of years ago here. My ex-chick's dog needed this surgery that was going to cost a shitload in California, so I took it to a vet in Ensenada, dropped it off, and then came back here and got barreled by myself for hours. Went back and picked up the dog, had some tacos at El Trailero, and that was that."

"How much the surgery cost you?"

"Ah, like a hundred bucks or something. The pinche crooks wanted a grand at home. Same with dental work - I get all my stuff done down here. Twenty-five bucks for a cleaning, $30 for a cavity - less than a quarter of the price. You should get a gold tooth while we're here - on your fang or something. That's status."

Suited and waxed up, we run into the water to baptize the trip. Beachbreak barrels and no one else out. Things go smoother with a bit of saltwater in the veins.

ITS TO EARLY FOR TACOS WHEN WE PASS EL TRAILERO IN ENSENADA. We want huevos a la Mexicana with beans, tortillas and salsa casera - about as good a breakfast as there is in the world. "Let's just park here by the harbor," I suggest, "and find a little spot. I want to check and see if my bro Jorge is around. He's taken me out to Todos a bunch. Good driver in big seas - and hilarious... always calling people culateros and things like that."

"Sounds good: huevos and Jorge, vámonos culatero."

Down at the dock Jorge's boats aren't in their slips. It's a pristine, glassy day, so he's probably out fishing. We find a nice restaurant with an amiable woman running the entire operation, order the huevos a la Mexicana, eat in silence and get back on the road. We want o make Catavina by dark, and then maybe take a full moon walk into the cactus forest.

We pass the vineyards in Santo Tomás, the farms and volcanos of San Quintín, and the river valley of el Rosario - always a source of wonder, as we imagine what a might source of water once roared down in the Catavina cactus land. Darkness is falling. One last night in bed would be good, so we pull into the least expensive motel and get a room. We're the only ones there.

The place is painted pink, Even the oleanders skirting the place are pink. Had to be the wife's idea.

We sit outside the room in plastic chairs, drinking beers and watching the moon ascend. "We should check Rodrigo's old zone tomorrow." Rodrigo had built his little cottage with materials from the desert and decorated it with landscape treasures, like whalebone, shells and cacti. A classical Baja ex-pat, removed from the jet stream of American life. He surfed, he painted, he lived simply - like the other desert creatures, few knew he even existed.

Pancho and I both spent time there as kids.

Before bed, we take a stroll into the desert. Our shadows are painted tack-sharp in the sand moonlight. Big cacti in full flower, the desert buzzing with life all around us. "We're lucky," says Pancho, "These only bloom a few weeks out of the year."

At dawn we drive down the coast to Rodrigo's cottage. The small bay is tranquil as ever, but there are always waves around the corner and good fishing nearby. It's obvious why Rodrigo picked this spot - but the cottage is no longer there.

We mill around the empty lot for a while, picking up odd shells and bones that may once have been part of Rodrigo's home. We ponder what could have happened to the old gringo who shared so much knowledge with us. The desert keeps many secrets.

We get back on the road without saying much. The swell has dropped some.

We're headed deeper on the road into Southern Baja where a tourist permit is required. Filling out our permit cards in the roadside office, Pancho remembers he doesn't have a passport.

"Just copy mine - change a number or two," I whisper. He does, and we're back o our way in no time.

A south is on the way. Our options are wide open.

ONE LAST STOCK UPON BEER AND ICE - last chance for a while. We're going to check a remote, hard access area. And might stay there for  long time. As we reach the ocean, the road succumbs to impassible coastline. There's no sign of people now, not even fishermen.

Heading farther along a narrow dirt road and through craggy hills, a truck suddenly appears hot on our tail. "Kinda random," Pancho muses. "Where did they come from?"

We pull out to the side to let them pass or to see what they want. Here we are, in a truck with California plates and camping gear in the middle of nowhere. Two big Mexicans in a rust-mauled F-150 stop beside us. "Qué hacen aquí?" they as with interest and suspicion. "We're looking for waves; we're surfers," we answer back in Spanish. The guys are checking out our car. "Ahh, olas. You want olas? OK, vámonos. There are waves over there." They point over a hill and indicate for us to follow them. Pancho offers them cold cervezas for the road, which they accept.

We follow them in a 4x4 up a steep, sandy hill that we'd not have otherwise attempted. These guys are cool, you think, Pancho? I mean, I'm sure they're just local fisherman... but we're going to the absolute middle of nowhere with them."

"This is odsend," Pancho yells over the chorus of the off-road speed race. "These guys are taking us to waves!"

"I'm sure it's mellow - just thinking, in case I have to spin this thing around quick and blast out of here," I yell back.

"Yeah, but you just have to have faith in the goodness of mankind," Pancho shouts. "Plus, these guys wanted beers. Their hearts are mine."

Still - it feels like one of those setups they warn you about. Desert bandidos. Just follow us down this sketchy road and...

As they disappear over a rise, I'm tempted to spin around and haul ass. But we keep driving, keep trusting.

Twenty minutes down this sparsely traveled road, the coast appears like a sigh of calm. The rickety f-150 stops and the men get out, approaching us quickly as we pull up. This is it. They're at our window before we can picnic.

They want another beer.

We sit on our bumpers discussing the coast. They are fisherman in charge in regulating poaching in the area. That's why they came up hot - through we might be poachers at first, heading to this remote haven of edible sea life.

A new swell is hitting, but the wind is already on it. The fisherman stay for one more beer and tell us to camp, surf, fish... whatever we want. We watch the ocean for another half-hour. "The fishermen are pretty much the surfers down here," Pancho says. The waves will be good in the morning, but there's plenty of daylight left and some wind-protected area nearby, so we agree to move on, passing a couple of fishing villages before we reach the right spot. We've driven enough today.

There's nobody near where we set up camp, but then a lone figure looking to be about our age comes jogging up. He stops for a chat, saying he's one of two surfers from nearby fishing village of just a hundred people. They haven't seen another surfer herein a very long time. He tells us he'll come back later, then jogs off again. An hour later he's back with his young friend - the other surfer - and they both have boards. They want to go surfing, show us around, but the light is dropping and the tide wrong. We make a fire instead and decide to surf together in the morning. It's a simple new friendship, not uncommon in these parts. They invite us back for dinner with their family.

Papá is on the couch when we enter the stunted cinder block home. Mamá is cooking; it smells wonderful. We've brought a bottle of Italian wine as a gift. They've been living in this village for 35 years, virtually cut off from the outside world. It's lovely, unadorned dinner of seafood, beans and homemade tortillas. Pancho makes everybody laugh. The family insists we come back tomorrow for café and breakfast.

In the morning as promised, we return for el desayuno, then take off with our new friends. After checking a couple of lonely reefs for an idea of the swell, the locals decide to make for a spot up the coast, an hour away. There's another wave to the south that would be just as good, but the boys need supplies from the town up north. We debate; south is our route. We bid farewell and drive off with the comforting feel of kind-hearted acquaintance.

Farther south the waves are good - another empty lineup, cleared out by cartel fear and media hype. We spend two full days in the water before the swell drops. Just wind and dust now.

"Pancho, it's time we get over the Mainland. The vibrancy is calling. Coconuts and mangos and papayas and so much surf. I really don't want to miss another good swell  down there, and there are still some people I want to check in on. I've got buddies round Vallarta, Michoacán, Zihuat... all the way to Puerto."

"We haven't  even found anyone we've checked in on so far," Pancho reminds me. "Yeah, but we keep meeting new people, right? We'll just cruise it. Just gotta keep an eye out for the topes. They come out of nowhere on that highway."

"Topes won't be a problem for this old truck. She's already seen a lot. She can handle it."

We pack up and drive toward the ferry, happy for whatever might happen next.
 
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