March 5th, 2003 So, this trip started much like all my trips of late - with an extensive search of all my luggage. After checking in, I was informed I was a "selectee" which did NOT mean I was being upgraded to first class, rather it meant my bags would be swabbed for bomb materials. Ordinarily, this is no big deal - but I had done a very meticulous packing job and feared the stone handed airport officials would destroy my excellent packing performance.
My actual bag did look a little suspect. A rolling suitcase with a fold-up stool and a sleeping bag bungi-strapped to it. Now, I don't mean to make a big deal about the packing job, but I was packing for a seven week trip and for three distinct environments: camping in Baja, nightlife in Manhattan Beach, and hiking in Arizona. Its a delicate balance and I was very protective of my impressive packing work. Therefore, I excercised my right to watch the officials unpack the bag, search it, and re-pack it. As they turned the pack inside out, I huffed and sighed and made faces until it was all packed up again and sent down the shoot. I actually thought they did a good job - but apparently my antics during the search must have snared the ire of the officials and not surprisingly, when I arrived in San Francisco, my checked bag did not. That's when I decided that luggage handlers are the most powerful people in the world. Fortunately, they didn't throw it inthe trash - just on a plane to Arizona and I was able to retrieve it the next day. I spent one full day in San Francisco and was able to meet up with Monica, a woman I met in Australia. I met Monica and her Scottish friends on the Whitsunday sailing trip and she had returned from Australia and was visiting her parents in the Bay Area. We walked through North Beach, saw the sea lions on Pier 39, and reminisced about when I screamed girlishly after a moth landed on my leg in OZ. (It was a pretty scary moth, though.) The following morning, Gulliver, his roommate Dan, and I headed out in Dan's Subaru for L.A. where we would meet the rest of our camping crew. The drive down was uneventful, unless you count me losing a lit cigarette into the back seat of the car and lying about it to Dan (he was impressed later when he found it and the corresponding burn mark.) We spent one night at Iseman, Nolz, and George's in Manhattan Beach and moved on the next morning, adding Josh, Iseman, and Nolz to round out the players.
A painless trip through the border sent us into Tiajuana and onward to look for our first camping spot. The landscape in Baja is pretty spectacular. Highway 1 is laid right beside the Pacific Ocean and provides sweeping views of dramatic cliffs and the relentless Pacific Ocean. The minute you get into Mexico, you can tell how very different the country is. Aside from the patches of million dollar vacation homes that line the beach, most of the homes are very modest and poverty is apparent. We drove about 70K down the coast and stopped at our first camp site, K-78. We ate black bean tacos and drank Tecate. It was a good night. The next morning, they gave it a go at surfing - the waves were alright. I didn't join them - I was pretty happy with a chair, my guitar, and the sun. I was staring directly at the beautiful Pacific Ocean and saw no need to actually go in it. We departed K-78 in the afternoon with the intention to travel another 50K down the coast and pick a new camp spot. Unfortunately, we got about 10K down the road and Dan's clutch went out. No problem. We pulled over and hastily sent Iseman and Nolz ahead in their car to locate a tow truck. This was at 1PM. Thirty minutes later a tow truck stopped. Dan and Josh speak pretty good Spanish - the rest of us do not. They determined this tow truck was not sent by Ise and Nolz so we waved goodbye, assuming there would be plenty of other tow trucks to help us out. The smirk on the driver's face should have tipped us off. Shouldn't be too long now we thought. They'll be back right away. After about two hours and no sign of them or another tow truck, we started to rethink our plan. It probably wasn't the best idea to send the two guys who speak the least Spanish somewhere - up the road was all we knew - to arrange an affordable tow for us. Meanwhile, we are on the side of the road, courteously letting all the bandidos in the area know we would be available for robbing come night fall. In the Baja tourist handbook: Tip #1: Don't let your car breakdown; Tip #2: Don't camp or hang out outside of designated camping areas. At about 4PM and no sign of them, Dan and Josh began asking the obligatory questions: "How well do you know these guys?"; "Is it possible that they would just blow us off?". "Of course not," we replied. "They're our old buddies," we assured.
At 5PM, Gully and I recanted and we too were convinced they had in fact blown us off and were enjoying margaritas and fish tacos at some cantina down the road. "Those bastards..." was the unamimous sentiment. But they came back. At 5:30, Nolz' Honda rolled up behind us to cheers and smiles. Still no tow truck though. It turns out, they had been waiting at the toll booth just five miles down the road and had sent a tow truck to get us hours ago. Within minutes the same tow truck driver from before finally showed up and for a $20 tip he dropped us at the toll booth outside of Ensanada. We paid some shady guy $2 to watch the car and we hauled what we could to San Miguel, the only site within walking distance. This would be our home for the next three days. The next morning Dan and Josh left to sort out a new clutch. They returned mid-day after having the car towed to a dodgy mechanic a few miles down the road. They were pretty convinced this mechanic was not a Subaru specialist. Nevertheless, he offered to rebuild the clutch in 2-3 days for a mere $300.* So...it seemed we would be getting familiar with the dusty camp site/parking lot of San Miguel. However, the scorching sun and endless blue ocean did lead us to agree there were worse places to be stranded.
San Miguel is famous for its US ex-pats in motor homes, Ensanada teens, and a right side break. However, because the break was coming off a rock beach - it made it a dangerous place to surf, which meant Iseman would be the only surfer from our camp. Another group of teens from UCSD were camping and surfing there as well and it was entertaining enough to watch them. Gully, Dan, and I headed into Ensanada to get provisions, fish tacos, and tequilla. We were on our third night and it was to be our best. Gully somehow made paella on a camp stove, using sausage and fresh shrimp from Ensanada. Like most food when camping, it was well received. After dinner, we built our fire and selected a drinking game that would give us a restful sleep. We played Kings. The purpose of this game is to get you drunk. Quick. It worked. A deck of cards is used - each card has a different meaning. Ace: you take one drink, 4: you hand out 4 drinks, 9: you get to make a rule, etc. We split into teams and decided 5's meant a shot of Tequila for one side, 6's meant a shot of Tequilla for the other side. The game ends when the last king is drawn - whoever's team drew the last king had to each have a shot of Mezcal. AND, the person who acutally draws the last king has to drink....the worm. So we played and got ridiculous. Eventually, the third king was drawn. Somehow, we all knew who would draw the last one. And even when the deck was passed to me, and I would draw something other than that last king, we all knew it would make it back around. And it did. On my next turn, I pulled a card to find that dirty old man staring directly at me - whoops and hollars echoed through our camp site (momentarily waking, Chachi, one of the 10 or so random dogs that live at San Miguel.) Gully took the first Mezcal shot and grimaced accordingly, Josh the second - he may have been smiling. The bottle with just less than inch of actual liquid was handed to me. No one cared about the liquid - we were all staring at the wrinkled, pickled worm languishing at the bottom of the bottle. In one unforgettable gulp I swallowed the contents of the bottle, unmistakably feeling the larva hit the back of my throat. Unfortunately, I didn't get any mystical powers that legend says accompanies eating the worm. I did get mild indegestion, though.
Iseman and Nolz left the next day and remarkably, the clutch was finished late that night and for the pre-agreed $300. We stayed one more night at San Miguel and in the morning decided to call it good for Baja and headed back up to L.A. Despite not getting as far as we intended, we still had a great time and got to know the camp site of San Miguel really, really, really well. (* After returning to SF, Dan had his car checked out and needed to pay an additional $900 to get a new clutch and repair the damage the Mexican machanic had inflicted. Apparently there were bolts missing and a few parts, unrelated to the clutch, exchanged.)
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