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.