Mexico City

Our journey from Guadalajara to Mexico city was a breeze as we had inadvertently purchased tickets for an 'Ejectivo' service (Executive coach) and so were treated to ultra comfortable seats, free food and drink, seat back TVs and personalised music choice. It's incredible how upmarket the coach service and network is here but then virtually the whole rail network was shut down in the 1990s so I suppose it needs to be. Whilst our Spanish is undoubtedly improving and we are picking up new words and phrases every day we are a million miles away from being able to understand the 200mph prattling of the locals. This extends to the dubbing of movies so while Kerry sat through the jibbering of a film I sat and listened to some music courtesy of the on-board mp3 player. There was a good choice of music, questionably translated from Spanish into English. I elected not to listen to Verve's "Bitter Swett Shinpony" but did enjoy Madonna and "Like a Payer". Throughout our 7 hour journey we climbed and climbed, from around 1500ft at the outset to 7500ft by the time we got to Mexico city. I remember back in 1999 feeling absolutely awful whilst here, culminating in our bolting for Acapulco for a week before feeling brave enough to tackle the city again. Altitude, pollution and a seething mass of population all contrive to make Mexico city a daunting and challenging place in my opinion and I felt this keenly as we disembarked from the bus and set about locating the hotel we'd booked online the day before. We feel the same every time we arrive somewhere new: vulnerable, wary, confused, irritated by our bags, desperate not to be the victims of a scam or ripped off in any way. Within 24 hours though that all melts away and we feel confident and secure in our surroundings. It's a strange one. We took a taxi from the bus station to our hotel, a 45 minute ride through a monsoon and gridlocked streets for the princely sum of £4. The rain sheeted down such that within 10 minutes of it starting the water level was above the curbs and the roads resembled rivers. Given that Mexico city is built on a lake anyway and seeing rain like this it's no wonder that many buildings are what could colloquially be described as 'on the piss'. Many buildings resemble Pisa's finest and a visit here must be a terribly upsetting experience for those with OCD or technical drawers or anyone else who likes everything just so. Because of the dreadful weather we ate in the restaurant next door to our hotel that first night and managed to make utter fools of ourselves in the process. Dressed in combat trousers, tee shirts and kagoules we were shown to our table having first given our names and our hotel (?) to realise that everyone else was swankily attired, hombres suited and booted and senoras in their finery. Our damp barnets completed our bedraggled look, the fact that we gorged on bread before the meal arrived as we were so hungry meant we barely touched our obscenely sized meals and another bout of "Moctezuma's revenge" once back in the room for me completed our sorry excursion. I think I've already mentioned, all but 6 of my previous days spent in Mehico could best be described as a "latrine-fest" so I was relieved that this bout was reasonably short-lived, though long enough to realise that, with a bit of imagination, I could see monkeys, cows and a chap with a moustache in the patterns in the floor tiles of our bathroom. On Saturday we ventured out, firstly to the Zocalo, the main square of the city. It's an arresting sight as you emerge into the daylight from the metro with majestic colonial buildings on all sides. The Spanish certainly knew how to build an awe-inspiring city, though of course what they razed to the ground in order to build the capital of new Spain would be a much greater thing to behold. With years of traffic belching out exhaust fumes most of the buildings in the city are coated in detritus and have a dark pallor and this somehow adds to their visual appeal. The cathedral which dominates the zocalo is probably the most noteworthy structure but whichever direction you look in you are in for a treat. We went inside the cathedral and whilst I'm not religious in any way I always find it a fascinating experience in such places. For starters the architecture is generally magnificent and it's interesting to see how different people behave. We saw everything from indifference to a middle-aged man on his knees, tugging at the skirts of an elderly woman in a dinner lady apron and weeping gratitude for some sort of blessing she had bestowed upon him. A part of me wishes I understood all this, though I doubt I ever will. With the Christian box ticked we next sought to redress the balance by visiting what's left of the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan. When Hernan Cortes arrived in Tenochtitlan in 1519 he would have been greeted by the fabulous sight of a city bigger than anything in his native Spain, gleaming white with alabaster and apparently floating on lake Texcoco with causeways to the mainland. Surely in awe that such a culture had flourished in isolation from the known world, he nevertheless set in motion its destruction. A few hundred Spaniards, together with their horses, muskets and the help of some disaffected rival tribes had effectively brought down the empire by 1521 and begun the process of converting millions of natives to Catholicism and to swear allegiance to the king of Spain. Due to the relish with which the Conquistadors took to their task there is little left of Tenochtitlan but the "Templo Mayor" (great temple) has been excavated and its ruins provide a fascinating glimpse of what once was. The rest of it is lost beneath the current city and what artifacts have been recovered are in museums. This is no Rome! We took in the football over lunch on Saturday but Spain bore me to tears and the only bright spot was that they knocked the whingeing French out. The restaurant staff managed to amaze us with their insouciance and general disdain for us. My order for a coffee at one point was greeted with nothing but a smirk and with nothing forthcoming I asked the waiter again only for him to turn on his heel without uttering a word. I appreciate our Spanish is limited but there is no mistaking 'cafe con leche' so he was obviously just being an ignorant arse. As I mentioned last time, they don't like us and it is sometimes uncomfortable. Sunday was largely a day off for us though we did of course need to watch what would hopefully be England's glorious passage into the semi finals of Euro 2012. Fate conspired for us to watch the game in an Italian cafe which wasn't too bad a thing until a party of Italy supporting Mexicans came in at the start of extra time. It was hard enough to stomach our pitiful showing on the pitch, more so to be witness to more shoot - out woe (I was 26 the last time we won a penalty shoot-out!) but to also be mocked by Eye-tie Mexicans was too much. I watched England lose on penalties to Portugal in Gelsenkirchen in 2006 surrounded in the crowd by Portu-geezers. To a man they all offered me a handshake and commiserated with me before commencing their celebrations which was a great touch. There was no such decorum from these ignorami. With mood low we walked back to our hotel via the stunning Palacio Des Bellas Artes and were caught in another monsoon of almost biblical proportions. Kerry had realised just this morning that she had misplaced her kagoule somewhere so to protect her from the elements we invested 75p in a very fetching floor length water proof smock. It is as aesthetically pleasing, and as functional, as a bin bag. Monday was the first of 3 days where we knew we had to get up, get out and crack on and on today's agenda was Teotihuacan. For those of you interested in your Mexican history Teotihuacan was the first great culture in central Mexico, building a magnificent city 40 miles north of present day Mexico city with eventually around 125000 inhabitants. They worshipped pagan gods of rain, the sun, the underworld and believed in the cult of Quetzalcoatl; that a white and bearded 'god' had civilised them in the mists of time and then sailed across the Ocean to the east on a raft of serpents. (As you do). Teotihuacan is almost 2000 years old but is still in great condition and it's 2 main pyramids perfectly intact. They were a job to climb. The onset of middle age, the rarefied air and the paunches we have accumulated courtesy of the USA meant it was a bit of a breathless endeavour to climb all 248 steps and even harder for some of us to get down. Should there be such a thing as reincarnation it is doubtful that Kerry will return as a mountain goat. Since arriving in Mexico 3 or 4 weeks ago we have barely encountered any gringos and virtually no English speakers. We got chatting to an American-Chinaman at the top of the pyramid of the moon and it was so good to speak English to someone other than each other that we wanted to hug him. Returning to the city we caught the tube to Guadalupe to visit the famous church there. The church is built on the site where a miracle occurred in 1527. A local chap saw the virgin Mary on 4 separate occasions here, an event that went a long way to convincing the heathen savages that Catholicism truly was the way forward. Convenient? You decide. Regardless of all that the belief here is strong and people approaching the cathedral on their knees is testimony to that. We were fortunate to witness some sort of service after which 4 life-sized representations of Mary were taken outside into the sun and people queued up to pray to them. (and you think I'm mental for seeing cows in my bathroom floor) On Tuesday we visited Xochimilco, a southern suburb which has a network of canals on which you can travel on colourful boats. It's a tremendously peaceful escape from the hubbub in the city and with some boats transporting mariachi bands you are treated to the distant sounds of their music as you float lazily along. There's a slightly morbid point where a local guy fished dolls out of the water and strung them up in the trees in honour of a young girl who drowned in the canal. The other low point for me was our stopping at a canal-side garden centre and being offered the 'opportunity' to go and have a look at the plants. I politely declined and stayed on-board and talked about football with our oarsman. On the train to Xochimilco we passed the Azteca stadium and, like the tremendously accommodating travel partner that she is, Kerry agreed that it would be a great way to spend an hour or so by having a guided tour of the stadium. Hand of God, Pele 1970, Lineker's header, Maradona's 2nd goal-they all happened here and for me the stadium is synonymous with my O levels - I was watching Mexico 86 when I should have been revising. We met some nice Colombians on our tour (I think I told the lady that I was Colombian but I'm sure she understood I meant 'are you Colombian?') and our guide was a good egg too so overall it was a pleasant interlude. On Wednesday we took a bus tour of the city on one of the hop on - hop off buses and also spent the afternoon at the Museo de Antropologica. The museum houses some truly fantastic exhibits but perhaps none more so than the Aztec sun stone, a gigantic stone disk carved with all manner of intricacies. Outside the museum we watched a troop of voladores (flying men) perform in a spectacle which sees them climb a 100ft pole, sit atop a rickety wooden platform at the very top and then return to the ground by means of gradually unwinding a rope which is tied around their waist. If you suffer from even the mildest vertigo just watching them climb the pole is enough to make you have an egg but it's great entertainment. After a bit of a mix up on the tour buses we finally got back home and prepared for the next leg. I write from the Mexico city to Acapulco bus and I sincerely hope the weather turns soon. Can't say there's much chance we'll be 'going loco' in the pouring rain! Lastly, a word about my travel partner. We're now 2 and a half months in and there hasn't been so much as a crossed word between us. This is miraculous as well as fortunate. It wouldn't be much fun if I were out here with some sour-faced baggage so Kerry, thank you for being so easy to spend 24 hours a day, 7 days a week with. 

Mazatlan and Guadalajara

With the intention being now to work our way down Mexico we had a quick turnaround in Los Mochis after going up the copper canyon and back. Our train into Los Mochis on Saturday evening was about an hour late so by the time we'd dodged the mozzies at the station and shared a taxi back to civilisation with 4 other Mexicanos it was around 2300 hours and we were up, out and on the bus to Mazatlan at 0930 the next morning. Whilst that might seem like hard work it's infinitely better than hanging around somewhere with not much to see and do; far better to get cracking and get to a nice beach, something we thought particularly strongly about after our sojourn inland. We were lucky that there was a bus in just a few minutes time from our enquiry and we traded just under M$800 for 2 tickets for the 5 hour journey to the aforementioned Mazatlan. (not to be confused with the cheap clothes emporium in Blighty as suggested by one facebook wag) This particular bus journey was a joy, despite our having to sit apart on account of our buying 2 of the last 3 seats available. The bus was brand new and had ultra comfortable seats, wi-fi, more leg room than Robert Pershing Wadlow would need, separate toilets for male and female and a completely annexed driving compartment so that the driver wouldn't be interfered with or otherwise distracted by pesky passengers. It was, in short, a delight and the time on-board whizzed by. The only slight criticism would be that our fellow passengers wanted all the curtains drawn to keep the bright sunlight out. Whilst I can understand that, for us it was frustrating because we so desperately want to soak up all vistas. It's akin to spending a night with the woman of your dreams whilst wearing a wetsuit. There was a nervy moment at Culiacan where we disembarked for a 15 minute break and left all our bags on-board, only to watch the bus pull off and disappear. It was only going for refuelling as if turned out but it had us going for a minute. We arrived in Mazatlan at about 1430 and got a taxi the 3-4 miles up to the zona dorado (the gold zone) to our hotel, the Azteca Inn. No sooner had we checked in than we realised we had made a grave mistake. Our room was right by the pool in which were around 30 excitable and extremely noisy teenagers rendering it largely out of bounds. On top of that there were mozzies in the room which, no matter how much we tried, we simply couldn't eradicate them with our Memphis-baseball-game-issued mozzie swatter. We went out for dinner and to discuss our options and ended up hopelessly lost in some backstreets as night fell which further damaged our perception of the town. We resolved to move out of the gold zone and head down into the old town first thing tomorrow. This was a great move as we secured a room overlooking the seafront with a balcony for just M$595, less than a slap -up dinner. It was beautifully positioned and had both a pool and was situated opposite a small stretch of beach frequented by locals. Though we loved Mazatlan we found that the general disdain for Gringos is as prevalent here as anywhere. As a rule they won't look at you in the street, much less offer you a cheery "hola" or a smile. I expect this is because they assume we are Americano, a nation the Mexicans have a paradoxical relationship with. On the one hand well-heeled Mexicans are generally dressed in 'western' attire and models and tv presenters hail from the lighter side of mestizo. On the other hand the septic tanks relieved Mexico of an awful lot of land in the 1800s and then, by a wonderfully fortunate coincidence, discovered oil on that very land less than a week later, facts undoubtedly forming part of the schools history curriculum. It results in a sort of "I want your wealth and beauty and global power, you robbing baskets" type situation.     The alternative is that they may think we're Spanish, the nation responsible for decimating one of the most magnificent indigenous cultures that there ever was. (notwithstanding the indigenes propensity to remove people's hearts from their bodies using a stone knife whilst they were still alive) Either way we're on a sticky wicket being gringos, though to their credit the locals will say hello if you speak first. One thing I particularly admire of them is their love and respect of the family unit. Families get together regularly, dine out, go to the beach, visit each others homes. There's a genuine familial bond that I don't think we have in the UK any more. I say UK but some people's families aren't even there any longer, that's how little emphasis some place on it nowadays. Whilst taking breakfast on the seafront one morning there was an almighty din created by the staff who emerged from the restaurant blowing whistles, clanking spoons and clapping. They approached a table and placed a sea captains hat on the head of an elderly pudding of a woman and proceeded to sing some sort of birthday song. They then all shook her hand and left her to get on with her birthday breakfast. I managed not to lower the tone of this family affair as I had done at a similar occasion in La Paz; but a Greece equaliser is surely reason enough to leap from your seat, clap loudly and exhort Saxon colloquialisms! We took in England's victory over Ukraine on Tuesday in a bar called Gringo Lingo. As we were the only clients the guys there were happy to give up their prime sited tv to the match complete with English commentary. Whilst the match wouldn't win any prizes for technical merit I cared not a jot. 7 points, top of the group, avoiding Spain in the next round and grinding out results when you're not capable of much else are all reasons to celebrate wildly in my book and I think all the naysayers bemoaning our lack of flair are missing the point completely. I firmly believe we can dick Italy, possibly on penalties, and then it's the Germans in another semi and probable glorious failure. Though the surroundings were great I think we were slipped a Micky Finn in our limonadas because Kerry began to feel a little dicky towards the end of the game and 6 hours later I was almost running from a restaurant back to our gaff in order to expunge a vile concoction in what was an exceptionally close call. Despite the great hotel, fine beach and fascinating town we needed to get going again so after an 11 hour sleep where my body repaired itself after the intestinal horror of the previous evening we planned our next move. Rising at 9, a leisurely seafront brekkie and a stop-start Skype with Connor meant we didn't get to the bus station until midday and that the next bus to Guadalajara was at 1400, would take 8 hours and we would pass through a time zone meant we didn't reach our hotel until nearly midnight. We won't be leaving a long journey so late in the day again. The journey itself was interesting as we passed through some spectacular highland scenery and, sitting in the very front seats, were privy to the tremendous ability of our driver to drive at 100 km/h in the sheeting rain whilst texting and opening a plastic bag full of boiled eggs with his teeth. So, Guadalajara, the base for the Brazilian world cup squads of both 1970 and 1986 (you can't accuse this blog of not being educational), and for us just a stopover en route to Mexico city. We did some laundry here for after the heat of the past two weeks, particularly in Mazatlan, my clothes were causing offence to anyone within 10 yards of me. With the chores done we set out on a little tour of this grand city of 3 million inhabitants and marvelled at some of the architecture, most notably the churches. It is a classically colonial city with palaces, museums, governmental seats and statues galore. Obviously with our only being here for one full day we saw but a tiny part of it but what we did see was fabulous. In order to maximise our time we took a 90 minute tour bus which came in the form of an antiquated charabanc. The gringos hanging out of the windows taking pictures of anything and everything came in for a fair bit of attention in so ridiculous a vehicle. We're just a few hours away from Mexico city as I type this but before I sign off I just want to thank those of you who are keeping in touch whilst we're away as it means an awful lot to both of us. Special mention must go to my dear old mother who is doing a sterling job coming to terms with this new fangled Internet, my bueno amigo Roberto McBarnes-Watts of Inverness who is proving that at least someone is reading my garbled ramblings and to my middle daughter Jasmine who sent me the most beautiful letter the other day. Though I don't see those lamb chops very often it's lovely to know that distance and all the other nonsense hasn't diminished our bond. From Kerry's perspective it's e-high fives to: Madre and Padre, Jamie - high priest of Dropbox and Connipeg and Jordation.

The Copper Canyon railway

I spent a couple of months in Mexico in 1999 in what, I suppose, was a toe in the travelling waters for me. Life was very different then: I was married, had responsibilities and all my focus and energies were directed towards my children, something not possible right now. Because things were different and we were where we were in life we could only afford those 2 months away when really we wanted 6 and In order to maximise our time we centred our attention on the Mayan heartlands in the south of Mexico, Belize and Guatemala and the beaches of Cancun and Acapulco. During this trip we bumped into a septuagenarian couple from Darlington called Cecil and Joan on 4 or 5 separate occasions and during one of our conversations they positively raved about the Copper Canyon railway. Since then it's been on my bucket list and so it was that we woke to our alarm at 0410 on Thursday morning and packed an overnight bag for a trip on this train. It was a slightly mute affair as we staggered around our room in the half light, semi-conscious and half delirious due to the ungodly hour. Neither of us are renowned for our ability to prise our ageing masses out of the sack until we absolutely have to but there was also something of an atmosphere in our room too on account of our "having words" the night before. I say we'd had words, it was more a case of Kerry standing in open mouthed incredulity as I vented about the parlous state of my potential footy watching over the next few days, one of which would see England in action. I probably don't have many sympathisers out there but, for me, the bi-annual football tournaments are just about as important as life itself. It is imperative that I see all the games that I possibly can and nothing, but nothing, can get in the way of an England game. I felt I was facing an impossible situation: potentially miss several games and possibly even England v Sweden or forego the opportunity to ride one of the worlds most scenic railways.  The station at Los Mochis is about 4km out of town so we went by taxi and were the second people there, arriving at 0455 for the 0600 departure. As we entered the station the one other guy there asked me to shut the door and over the course of the next hour it became apparent why. The area is riddled with mosquitoes and while we waited to board I was bitten 7 times and Kerry twice. Two of mine even penetrated the shirt I was wearing so it was a particularly determined assailant that took a shine to my gringo blood. I was also bitten on the left eyebrow, the swelling which, coupled with my still bloodshot eye, resulted in my appearance taking on that of the vampirical love child of John Merrick. Despite me taking more hits and them evolving into rock hard lumps over the next day or so I don't think I came off as badly as Kerry. Hers itched so much that she considered amputation of her left foot to deliver herself from her purgatory and it became so inflamed and painful that she had a job walking on it. At about 0530 the booking office window opened and we handed over a wad of pesos in exchange for 2 first class singles to Creel, a town 3/4 of the way to Chihuahua and where we had identified as being the optimum place to bale. You might think I see enough of trains back home and that the prospect of 10 hours trundling along at about 30mph would be enough to do my nut but you'd be wrong. I love foreign trains, there's something so exciting about the hubbub at the station before you board and of course everything on-board is so different from back home. Trains allow you to move around, you can take a leisurely trip to the John and not gag at the whiff emanating from the plastic kazi like on a bus and here in Mexico you can even lean out of the window at the ends of the carriages. So off we set, only 1 minute late at 0601, trundling through the state of Sinaloa at the aforementioned 30mph. The first 4 hours were pretty drab to be honest, flat farmland and scrub was the order of the day, though it was fascinating (if that's the correct word) to behold the utter poverty of people living in shacks by the side of the line. We also saw a few dead cows just laying by the line side, one of which was being eaten by vultures. Just over 4 hours in, as I was beginning to wonder what all the fuss was about regarding this railway and considering allowing my increasingly heavy eyelids to succumb to gravity, we entered the canyon. I'm not sure that I have the vocabulary to describe to you what we saw over the next 4 hours but I'll do my best. It was magic. Towering peaks surrounded us as our little 3 carriage train chugged ever upwards and we crossed bridges, went through tunnels and negotiated precipitous cliffs. With every passing minute you could but wonder how engineers ever built this railway, it is surely one of the most fantastic feats of engineering history. The immaculately turned out train crew were pointing out the places of interest as we progressed and it all made for an absolutely wondrous experience. At one point the line zig zags up a cliff before disappearing into a tunnel and then emerges into yet another breathtaking gorge. It is simply phenomenal and your wonder is heightened because you can stand at the open windows and soak it all up without panes of glass in the way. There is a loop at Divisadero so that the train in the opposite direction can pass and this is a 20 minute stop where a frenzy of taco sellers and craft stalls vie for trade. There is also a viewpoint for the canyon here and little Indian kids wander about trying to sell wristbands and the like. I'm an absolute sucker for a little girl looking forlornly at me whilst tugging at my trousers saying "diez pesos" so we bought two! A couple of hours later we arrived at Creel and made for the hotel Plaza Mexicana. It was a great move for the £32 per night tariff included brekkie, dinner and, most crucially, full sky tv. Even better was that Italy v Croatia was just starting on replay and was to be immediately followed by Spain v the Micks. Heaven! On Friday we had a quick look around, climbing up to the statue of Christ overlooking the whole town, but there isn't an awful lot to occupy you without taking a tour down into the canyon, hiring a quad or mountain bike or similar. As we discussed our departure at the station before heading back to the room to watch England v Sweden we met an English guy called Charlie from Oxford. Though plummy gobbed and prematurely grey his was a fascinating tale. He works in farming for 6 months of the year, cash in hand, spending the other 6 months on his lonesome travelling the world. He lives as cheaply as possible, hitchhikes, gets put up by an extensive network of friends and seemingly is about as free as one can imagine. Well, depends on your definition of freedom I suppose. I know people that that sounds like utter hell to. Maybe the definition of freedom is to work your nuts off and to spend 80% of your income on utilities, phone contracts, sky tv and running a car and just living for weekends. I don't know. Back at the room the usual roller coaster of emotions was experienced as a turgid encounter became hope, despair and anger and then unabated delirium. At last we have beaten Sweden in a competitive fixture and a draw against Ukraine will see us into the quarters. Plus, as things stand, we appear to have a master tactician at the helm and someone who can identify what needs changing during a game. Dinner that night in the hotel was a strange affair. We were brought a hearty soup to start containing rice, potato and carrots as well as a hulking knuckle of inedible meat. With that despatched we awaited the main course with interest only to be furnished with a yoghurt. We weren't entirely certain if the main was to follow the pudding or what so sat there like bookends to see what transpired. As it turned out nothing did. The knuckle soup was our dinner and, without wishing to sound ungrateful whilst in a country with such visible poverty, it was barely enough to feed a 2 year old so we ended up going out for another meal later on. Saturday was a travel day with us catching the train back to Los Mochis. There was confusion over the departure time of the train as one sign at the station suggested it would be 1147 and another 1227 whereas the ticket office clerk said 1120. In the end it rolled in at 1215 by which time we'd stood there for 90 minutes, handing out a few pesos to some Indian kids and watching them eat ice creams on us. With Creel at an altitude of 7800 ft and Los Mochis at sea level the train essentially coasts downhill for 10 hours. I reiterate though, what a joy and privilege it is to make this journey, truly one of the most memorable things we've done so far. The state of the track leaves an awful lot to be desired, the half dozen wagons being left to rot in the gorges having presumably derailed at some point don't fill you with much confidence and the impromptu epitaphs to track maintenance guys who have presumably plunged to their deaths is more than a tad disconcerting. Don't let anything like this put you off though. If you come to Mexico, do the Copper Canyon.

Baja peninsular

The Baja Peninsular. Do you know much about it? Probably not. If you're like me you may have been able to point to it on a map and take a reasonably educated guess that it's about as dry as a pre- milk shredded wheat, but little else. From one of my packs of Top Trumps in the 1970s I knew that cars raced across the desert here and I also knew from years into Vee Dubs that VW beetles were sometimes turned into "Baja bugs"; big-wheeled, high-suspensioned and with modified bodies. But that was it. I couldn't name a town, didn't know if there was a town actually, I just figured at the outset of the trip that it would be nice to say I'd travelled down the Baja. Let's start with the pronunciation first, so we know what exactly we're talking about. I started off in Blighty telling people we were going down the "Bar-he-ah" but decided in Tijuana that I was being a bit poncey (and probably wrong) so we Anglicised it to "Bar-je" (as in the French for "I"). After a day or so we heard someone mention the "Ba-ha" and whilst it's probably really the "Ba-ka" (the k sounding like your next port of call is the spittoon) lets just leave it at Ba-ha! We left Tijuana on Monday at 1600 and travelled overnight to Santa Rosalia which is just over halfway down. As we left Kerry noted that one of my eyes was terribly bloodshot and over the course of the week it would get worse, to the point where I was conscious that people were recoiling when I removed my shades. The first thing we noticed as we disembarked from the bus was the heat, it hit us like a blast furnace even though it was only about 8am. As it was so early we decided to have a coffee and some breakfast before trying to find an hotel as it was obviously way too early to check in and during this, Kerry, tired from a poor nights sleep on the bus, came over all semi-delirious and frazzled from the heat declaring that an hotel with a pool was a must. There were half a dozen hotels in town and I checked the first, £15 per night, basic, uncomfortable, dark, no pool; the second, £20, no pool, full until check-out at midday, leaving us with a yomp uphill to the hotel Frances; £33, quaint, comfortable, POOL. That sealed the deal and we were soon in it, enjoying the cool water as it rejuvenated our baked carcasses. What a glorious thing it is to immerse yourself in water when you are a lily-white northern European thrust into 35+ temperatures. Though we'd had a couple of baking hot days in Arizona we'd had the car then so we were in and out of air-con. This was really our first exposure to a sustained pummelling by the sun. After a couple of hours the water had worked its magic and we went for a little explore. We hoped to find a pristine beach on which to lie for a day or two but actually only found a crumbling former mining town with a stinking and fish carcass infested marina and no beach whatsoever. It didn't take us long to decide we'd need to move on and sharpish so we went back to the bus station and plotted tomorrows escape. We had a quick look-see at the town and whilst it was at least refreshing not to be harangued for taxis etc at every turn there was next to bugger all here so we headed back to the sanctuary of the pool. En route we encountered a slightly crazed individual who told us that Santa Rosalia was the greatest place and warbled on about the French being responsible for this great town. Intrigued, I looked this up back at the hotel and discovered that a French company bought a 99 year lease of the area in the 1880s in order to mine the local minerals. They employed/enslaved the local populace and when everything had been mined, only around 40 or 50 years on, they hot-footed it out of there quicker than you can say "avez-vous une piscine?". With no investment from local or national government since, the town of Santa Rosalia is just crumbling. It's sort of compelling, but only in the same way as a pile-up on the motorway is. Next day we were up early in order to catch the bus down the coast to Mulege. We had higher hopes for this place as our guide book seemed to suggest we'd find the beach we were looking for and we should also expect a quaint little Mexican village to boot. The journey lasted only about 45 minutes and we were soon seated in a restaurant on the edge of town tucking into "huevos reveultos" (scrambled eggs) and fending off indecipherable questions from the old crone who ran the place. Despite the language barrier we did manage to ask her if we could leave our main packs in her restaurant while we went and explored but when we returned an hour later she was nowhere to be seen so I just took our luggage. So much for her minding them as I could have been anyone! We got a taxi to a local hotel with pool and were soon in the water before setting out to find this beach we'd read about. Sadly this beach turned out much like the one at Santa Rosalia, fish strewn, weed ridden, pebbly and horrid. There was no way we could go in the sea here though there was evidence of previous activity; ruins of what looked like old restaurants and perhaps a shop or two. John Wayne used to visit here apparently so perhaps they were for his benefit. We again decided to move on next day and caught the bus at what should have been 0930 to La Paz, the large town and port at the bottom of the peninsular. In accordance with many of our bus journeys since hitting the road we left an hour late and the journey really seemed to drag. We saw a bit of the Baja, it was really our first daylight journey, but desert, cacti and dust gets a bit monotonous after a couple of hours and by the seventh hour I think we were both stir crazy. The one saving grace was that there was plenty of room on the bus to spread out. So we arrived in La Paz having, in my mind's eye, just to spend one night before taking the ferry to the mainland but Kerry was so in need of a bit of a rest and the city had such a nice vibe to it we decided to stop for a couple of days. La Paz proved to be a really cosmopolitan town with a beautiful promenade overlooking the bay and the vibrancy and general big town feel was just what we needed after a few days in the middle of nowhere. Our arrival here coincided with the start of the European football championships  and, after the first of many discussions about it, we had a deliciously leisurely breakfast whilst watching Poland v Greece. In the afternoon I did my bit for compromise and forwent Czech Republic v Russia in order to accompany Kerry on the search for bag number 3 purchase of the trip and, though fruitless, it was an opportunity to see the town. That evening we picked a great setting for a meal only to experience disappointment with the food itself. Picture the scene; setting sun over a limpid sea, palms silhouetted against the sky, a warm breeze and the love of your life sitting opposite. All was well until I decided to chance my arm with a dish I'd heard of but had no idea what it consisted of. Chicken mole was, I surmised, fowl in some sort of sauce rather than "hen with lawn wrecker". I was correct, though a chocolatey sauce on knuckley chicken managed to spoil the ambience that we'd previously created. With football becoming the be all and end all of my immediate existence we took in Germany v Portugal before catching a bus at 1500 on Saturday down to Cabo San Lucas. Cabo is the tip of the Baja, a paradise with gorgeous sandy beaches, water sports, good restaurants and more. It's a favourite place for Americans so English is widely spoken making our life easier too. We arrived at 1900 and having caught a local bus from the bus station into the main part of town (why are bus stations 4km out if town? Is it just infuriate the weary gringo?) we checked into a fantastic hotel and went out in search of sustenance. We went to a seafood restaurant and as I hadn't had a decent fish since the trip started I went for the "catch of the day", a full kilo of red snapper which was a full foot long and absolutely delicious. The unfortunate thing about Cabo is that you cannot walk 2 yards without being asked if you want to take a fishing trip, if you want a water taxi or to come and dine. You absolutely have to retain your sense of humour and play along but there's no doubt it gets wearying and, if you're not on top form, it can be downright aggravating. This is especially so for those of us who have the cross of a 2mm long fuse to bear. Shopping for bags was back on the agenda here and I did actually quite enjoy that to be honest. "Come in señor. Almost free. Special price for you today". I actually found all the banter a hoot whereas I think Kerry found it a bit intimidating and wearying. Unfortunately, of the 57 bags we looked  at on the first day none of them quite were what Kerry was looking for though we did eventually get there the next day. It's a fine specimen, a bargain at about £5 too! Shopping for bags aside, the main part of our time in Cabo was spent either watching the footy or snorkelling. The beach here was fabulous and only about 5 metres off shore were pockets of fish that were a joy to behold. A little further out was a large rock protruding out of the waves which we swam to and dived off. All great fun though a little unnerving a couple of hours in when this rock saw an influx of crabs seemingly set on basking in the sun. They gave me the creeps, especially with their bright red shells and the speed with which they scuttled about if you disturbed them. We really enjoyed our time in Cabo but decided to get cracking after 4 days of lolling about. We happened across a great deal to fly across to Los Mochis on the mainland for less than it would cost to go by bus and ferry so didn't hesitate to book it. We questioned our judgement when we arrived at the airport which was more Skid Row than Heathrow, more so on seeing the minute size of our "air taxi". My nerves weren't helped by being asked to lock the door as I was last on, nor that as we ascended we were subjected to a real buffeting. Nevertheless, an hour and a bit later we were on the mainland, preparing for the next leg; the Copper Canyon railway.

Into Mexico - Tijuana

After nearly 2 months of heading west we finally started to head in the general direction of our goal, Tierra del Fuego, on Saturday. I had a strong urge not to leave the USA which was probably some sort of subconscious trepidation at what lay ahead. After all, we'd been travelling on easy street up until now; everyone spoke English, communications were good and there were few possibilities of being stung, bitten or generally freaked out by creepy crawlies. By heading across the border all that was about to change. From San Diego there is a trolley (cue pedantic colleague's comment to point out that it's a streetcar, tram or a metro) to San Ysidro from where one walks across the border into Tijuana. This was our second border crossing of many, the first being at Newarke 7 weeks ago when we explained to the rather stern faced chappie what we were about to undertake and I suggested to Kerry that this one would be a doddle. That assertion was based on the fact that as I understood it Mexico will let any gringo in so that they can get their hands on your dollars, it's the other way around where you can expect the third degree from US customs officials or to make the crossing illegally under cover of darkness whilst being hunted by gun-toting border patrol and Alsatians intent on relieving you of a buttock. Sure enough we waltzed through along with a multitude of Americans heading for a night of cheap drinking, the only mild hiccup being when I was invited to push a button in front of a guard which, on turning red, preceded a question about the contents of my pack. Something didn't feel quite right to Kerry and thankfully she pressed the guard on stamping our passports which resulted on our being directed to customs proper, completing forms and paying $22.50 each for a visa. Had we not done that we would probably have encountered all sorts of bother later on. Once in Tijuana we were met with a barrage of offers for taxis and everything took on a whole different complexion. The streets were dusty and the pavements littered and cracked, the shops were different, faces were darker and, inexplicably, it felt hotter than it did on the American side. And of course, everything was now in Spanish. We found an hotel after a short walk and gleefully accepted the rate of just £18 per night. Once in the room I just flopped on the bed to digest the last couple of hours and the accompanying culture shock. After a rest we went out to get a feel for the place, walking down the avenida de la revolucion which is the main drag and the focal point for bars, restaurants and souvenirs. You have to retain your sense of humour in countries such as Mexico because your skin colour means you are constantly asked to look at goods on stalls, eat in restaurants, if you want a taxi. It's not always easy to do that of course but I'm determined to make a better fist of it than the last time I was in Mexico when I was an angry young whippersnapper of just 28. I was a bit concerned about the food in Mexico if I'm honest. As I recall I found it a disappointment last time around, plus, of the 55 nights I spent here back in 1999, 48 of them were spent clenching in an effort to stop myself turning inside out. It is fair to say I picked a bug up here which while not exactly ruining things, certainly made for a less than completely satisfactory experience. Also, over the ensuing years whenever I've had a Mexican meal in the UK I've always questioned why when they leave me feeling bloated and a little nauseous. So with more than a little anxiety we sat down to eat on Saturday night but as it turned out it was absolutely delicious. I had a tamiquena which, like most Mexican dishes, consisted of meat, tortillas, rice, beans, peppers and chilies. It was also incredibly cheap, 2 meals with drinks for less than £11. Our money is going to go a long way here which is just as well after the US. As it turned out our waiter spoke reasonable English but it has quickly become apparent in our other dealings how little of the language we know. I can ask for a room and a few other basics, as can Kerry, but we are absolutely floundering and can only sit looking vacant if asked anything in return. It is a pitiful state of affairs and we are trying desperately to pick as much up as we can as quickly as possible but it's not easy. With the plan being to acquaint ourselves with Mexico in Tijuana and then head down the Baja as soon as possible we decided to do a recce at the bus station on Sunday. This is easier said than done though because it's 5km out of town meaning we either had to try and work out the local buses or go against our grain and get a taxi. We asked a taxi driver how much and once he'd chanced his arm with a moronic opening gambit of $25 we sent him on his way with palpable disgust and proceeded to flag down every bus until one confirmed it was headed for the "centro caminera". Once on-board and having parted with our 90p for both our tickets (up yours taxi driver) we then had the problem of knowing when to get off. Our orientation wasn't helped by the bus performing a few pirouette type loops but we eventually reached our goal some 20 minutes later. The buses out here are amazing. They wouldn't be considered roadworthy back home and make an awful racket as they dart through traffic. The seats aren't going to win any prizes for comfort either and when you put the pot-holed roads into the mix you have something akin to a fairground ride. Whilst hotels and food may be cheap in Mexico it seems that long distance travel is not. Our next port of call, Santa Rosalia in Baja California Sur, is going to cost M$1300 or about $100 US. Back in town we had another wander, now feeling more confident and much less fazed by our new surroundings. We brushed off the attentions of the stall holders and restauranteurs with a jovial "no necessito" (I don't need it) or a 'no gracias'. It was fun and brought back a lot of happy memories of Mexico for me. Only difference being that last time I had a 2, 3 and 14 year old with me so the challenges were much greater then. Looking back I have no idea how we did that. 2 months in central America with the children, 2 of whom were tiny tots.  Once we'd had another shufty around the town, nipping back to the hotel twice to deal with an early bout of Montezuma's (sic) revenge for Kerry, we went to the hilarious museum of wax where, if the models bore any resemblance to the real thing, their random placement was also a hoot. Ayatollah Khomeini and JFK were together, Moses and pope John Paul 11. Princess Diana  (looking a little like a constipated Faith Brown) next to Julia Roberts. A random and inexplicable wolf man. We did learn one interesting fact in there though. Tijuana is named after an old lady called aunt Jane (Tia Juana) who would feed travellers as they passed her house here. Coming out of the museum Kerry took a photo of me and as she did a little girl of about 5 was tugging at her skirt trying to get her attention to buy a chicla (chewing gum). She was the sweetest little thing you ever saw and when I asked her how much for her chicla her reply, in the most pitiful and heart rending voice was "un peso". Un peso. 5p. After another delicious meal that evening, albeit with it seeing me probably already at my limit of tortillas and refried beans for now, we went to the town square to watch some sort of talent show, the highlight of which was a young lad dancing like Michael Jackson. He was really good but it seemed somehow out of place in the filthy and rubbish strewn surroundings. Monday was another travel day with our bus leaving at 1600 to head south. We nipped out in the morning and I bought some shoes to replace my soon-to-bite-the-dust Reefs and then we made for the bus station, fully confident after yesterday's recce.  Once there I found chewing gum affixed to my jacket, rucksack, trousers and hand courtesy of our bus seat. That was aggravating enough but I then  contrived to step in a humungous pigeon crap and spread that all over the cafe floor. It was not turning out to be my day but I consoled myself I hadn't had my face tattooed like the burly guy sitting opposite us in the waiting area. He had some writing across his forehead, mostly illegible but the first word was quite plainly "fuck". Did he know this or did his tattooist play some sort of dreadful trick on him? We had some lunch before boarding the bus and were going to round it off with a particularly delicious looking custard filled cream horn until I noticed a fly trapped in the cake display case. How long it had been there, how many eggs it had laid on those cakes and how sick we would be if we ate them did not bear thinking too deeply about! The bus was inevitably late departing though was much more comfortable than those we experienced north of the border. As we left the sprawling shanties of greater Tijuana and travelled down the pacific coast we saw beautiful beaches and rolling surf. Soon the sun set and we had the 10 hours of darkness to endure as our bus careered through the cactus strewn Baja desert. Waking at 0530 to a beautiful Baja sunrise was a treat to behold though I shuddered to think what horrors crawled, shuffled and slithered outside. We arrived at Santa Rosalia at about 0615. A strange place, a former mining town by the looks of things but our hotel has a pool and that is all we're concerned with right now.  We'll probably rest up for a couple of days here in our rather grand room before heading down the coast a bit further.

Venice beach

We caught a bus all the way from downtown Los Angeles to Santa Monica for the bargain price of just $1.50 each. If I tell you that this journey is almost 20 miles in length then you will understand our high-fiving each other on realising what we were getting for our money.  That's a figure of speech of course. There was no opportunity to high-five or even sit, travel in comfort or avoid having our personal space invaded by a multitude of Angelinos, so crowded was it.  To be fair we had picked a bank holiday to hit the beach so we were perhaps the architects of our own undoing. There was one slightly unsavoury incident on board where a young girl of around 13 got on with her father only to fall into the body of an attitude-heavy youth when the bus lurched around corners. After the second occasion he said rather menacingly something along the lines of "Yo better hang on to your man sister or ". The poor girl looked really shocked and upset and I really felt for her. After about an hour we were released from our sweaty incarceration and dispatched onto the seafront at the end of Santa Monica boulevard. With Santa Monica being ridiculously expensive we had opted for a backstreet motel about halfway between Santa Monica and Venice so we set off in that direction with the sun blazing above us. We soon found our motel and were immediately deflated. It was a pitiful place, dark, ancient, with broken window, suspect door lock and dreadfully uncomfortable bed. Thankfully we'd only booked one night and we immediately set to work looking for an alternative. What a godsend the Internet is for such situations. I mean, just what would you do without it and without a car? I guess you'd just set off on Shank's pony and hope to get lucky but it's hard work. I've done it before, most notably in Stockholm when I initially turned down a youth hostel because it was too expensive, walked around in circles for about 4 hours and ultimately ended up paying more at the original hostel than quoted as all the dorms were now full so I had to take a private room! We had a shufty online but came up with little so went out to a bizarre Hawaiian-based takeaway for some food to mull everything over.  Back at the gaff I had a quick look at Venice beach as an alternative and found a place right on the beach front which, albeit a bit more than we wanted to pay, looked just great.  We figured we could scrimp a bit on food and recoup some cash by virtue of the fact we'd just be lazing on the beach so we booked it. Next morning after a bizarre Hawaiian breakfast (omelette with rice and cabbage!) we walked the mile or so to the Cadillac hotel and immediately felt right at home. It was bank holiday Monday, Memorial Day, so the place was absolutely awash with people. We took a walk up the boardwalk (seafront promenade to you) and got our first taste of what a special place this is. It's not everyone's cup of tea, I realise that, In fact I wasn't certain it was mine right away but it would grow on me immeasurably during our stay. On that first foray we first of all encountered the unique stalls and wares that make being here so interesting. There are artists selling paintings, hair braiders, jewellery vendors, henna tattooists, real tattooists, homeless people selling signs handwritten on cardboard, a guy selling handwritten passages from the bible, beggars, skateboarders, poets, mystic Meg types and musicians. Ah! The musicians. If you're friends with Kerry on facebook you may have watched the video clip of the black guy playing the violin while the strange guy in the green stove pipe hat bobs about behind him. If so then you'll have had a glimpse of how wonderful that was. Impromptu music, busking, singing, whatever, so often provides some of the most memorable events and this is one that will long live in my memory. It was absolutely brilliant and I would gladly pay to go and watch him and his band. Next up was Harry Perry.  Harry who? I hear you say. No, I'd never heard of him either but he gets a mention in the Lonely Planet so he warranted a bit of investigation. Harry Perry is a 61 year old guy who dresses up as a Sikh each day and roller blades along the Venice boardwalk playing electric guitar and selling tee shirts. If that's not weird enough for you then perhaps the fact that he has done so for 39 years is. Not only that, he's toured with "System of a Down" and appeared as himself in several Hollywood Movies. Google him, he's a legend. To help us wind down and get into beach/holiday mode we invested a few shekels in some Californian red and sat atop our hotel on the terrace and watched the sun go down over the hills. It really was a truly memorable sight, beautifully coloured sky and palm trees silhouetted against it. It seems our vino was a tad on the potent side for poor Kerry who drank a sufficient quantity to decide to retire at about 9pm and enabled her to sleep for 11 hours solid. We wouldn't sleep so well next night! The following day was spent just lazing on the beach, and what a beach! 3 or 4 miles long and a hundred metres wide of the deepest and most golden sand you could wish for. Add to this a palm lined boardwalk and a tepid Pacific Ocean and you pretty much have my idea of nirvana. At last some chill time after seemingly an age either on the road or charging about LA. Time to read, listen to music, swim or just do nothing. Back in Blighty I find it so hard to do nothing and I'm probably not alone in only getting 7 to 7 and a half hours sleep per night. Since coming away I've found my sleeping mojo and now regularly put in 9 or 10 hour shifts. And dreams! My mind must be unravelling at some rate given the vividness of my night time subconscious. They're largely about my daughters but work colleagues are figuring pretty largely too at present. That evening we walked inland a little and found a great canteen where fresh vegetables were available. There has been a dearth of fresh veg since day one so we grabbed this opportunity to rapaciously gorge on broccoli and carrots in an almost unseemly way. Still feeling a little of the effects of last nights vino we went to bed at about 10pm though I couldn't nod off for some reason. I read a little and then, at about midnight, just as I was beginning to tire, our next door neighbours came in and began to party. Their revelry lasted until about 1am and they sounded stoned as everything either one of them said was followed by Beavis and Butthead style chuckling. I wasn't sure whether to knock on the wall. You never know if you're going to ask for trouble in such situations. Unbeknownst to me Kerry was also lying there listening to it and she called down to reception to complain, not that it had any effect. At 1am they went out so we had peace at last but I still couldn't nod off. At 2am a lady across the corridor began to audibly show her lover just how good a time he was giving her which, while mildly amusing for about 5 minutes, was anything but a full hour later. An hour? What sort of hero is this guy? I have to be careful what I write here because my mum reads this but dear God! If I amalgamated a month's worth I'm not certain I could ensure Kerry could keep half a hotel awake for that long! We're at 3am before peace reigns once more and I finally nod off, only to have another vivid dream about not being able to reach Jasmine and India. This was a particularly disturbing one and I woke with a start at 4am, now desperate for a pee too. I lie awake until 5 thinking about my dream, fell asleep for another hour and was then woken by a message from Jasmine asking why I hadn't Skyped her as we'd arranged. Only then did I realise I'd got my knickers in a twist over time differences. It's so bloody confusing. We started off 5 hours ahead of the UK but are now 8, 9 hours behind Melbourne but we're now 15. (hang on, that can't be right. You see, I still don't have a clue) To compound a miserable night the stoners came home at 7 and began playing guitar! I gave up and put the telly on and lay there in a vegetative state until Kerry stirred at about 8:30. Because we were both cream crackered the next day we weren't really up for the 8 mile cycle ride along the beachfront, though it was nice to get out on 2 wheels, albeit a single speed beach cruiser noddy bike. With a basket. We went on Santa Monica pier, bought some postcards and sat and watched some acrobats while we ate our lunch of fresh fruit. After 6 weeks of eating the American way we've both put on a bit of weight so we've finally decided enough is enough. Lunch is likely to consist of salad, fruit or zip until such time as the popper on my favourite trousers doesn't ping open when I take a leak. After a bit more lazing on the beach we ventured back up the boardwalk and took in a few more of the sights. We saw Harry Perry again (you can't miss him, he's there every day), an ego centric young body builder on muscle beach who was inviting people to take pics of him as he postured and posed, an old guy in red speedos playing YMCA loudly on his ghetto blaster and another guy in speedos and on roller blades brandishing a huge claw on which he had arranged jewellery. It is utterly bizarre and yet so captivating. Add in about 2 or 3 hundred homeless people into this mix and you really do have one of the most fascinating places on this earth to people watch. When it was time to leave Venice I didn't want to. We sat at breakfast watching an old rasta, Abraham, emerge from his decrepit camper van on the seafront and set up his paintings for the x000th time. A pretty blonde girl was with him helping and we went over to chat to her once we'd finished eating. It turns out that she'd given up her life in Missouri to shack up with 60 something Abraham and live in his van. She told us that her chap had been there since 1967. 1967. The summer of love. The year Sargeant Pepper was released. My parents had been married for just 8 years. My 50 year old bro' was only 5. Neither Kerry nor I were born. Abraham knew Jim Morrison when he lived in Venice. Unfortunately we'd already booked our next nights accommodation, in San Diego, otherwise I'd have pressed for us to stay in Venice a while longer. Maybe it's for the best we didn't. Perhaps it would be me roller blading around in my undercrackers in 20 years time. As we were leaving I bought a banana and a drink for a homeless lady whose gaze I'd met going into the shop and that was it, we were on our way. We were San Diego bound for two reasons: it was to be a quick rest stop while we galvanised ourselves for the crossing into Mexico and we also needed to get some medication. We also took the opportunity to send a parcel of unwanted items home.  It cost a fair bit but Kerry is a lot happier now she's not lugging around those 2 spurious bags and a rather heavy present she'd been nursing since Arizona. After a great train journey down the SoCal coast, San Diego was surprisingly beautiful, though we only saw the downtown area. It's a really lively city with loads of restaurants and bars. We stayed in a hostel here and after visiting the docs about Kerry's eye we had a great night out in the House of Blues, possibly the only such named joint on earth where one could watch rock, folk and jazz but no blues. Ah well. Onwards and downwards, south to the border and beyond where Kerry can begin to practise her espanol.  Eh mi cordera pequena?   Our first stop is Tijuana to acquaint ourselves with Mehico and then we'll be heading down the Baja.