So we managed to get the car fixed again, and wen´t on our way. Cruising along the East coast of Baja, we stopped off at this little beach and, just like the stereotypes, there wasnt a soul around; it was literally one of those catalogue pictures of white sands, palm trees and jade seas. We played in the water, took some classic cactus photos (let me apologise for describing the cactii as absurd before, they are actually graceful elegant and wise) and found a sting ray. Everything seemed to be going like too a smooth holiday, so it was no surprise hat when we got back in the car and drove on, it broke down AGAIN. The problem is that this time round we are in the middle of the desert and its getting dark. We managed to pull over a truck and a really nice guy said he would be able to give two of us a lift to the next town, so Jon and Fig went on. Paul and I were left stranded at sunset next to this broken vehicle chewing on dry tracker bars. After we had waited about half an hour, we tried the car again and, after a few blow outs and stalls and rolling backwards down a few hills, we got it going. It was a precarious situation, because the car stalls at slow speeds and we knew if it stopped again, that would be it. So we had to walk this tightrope between going to slowly and the car stalling forever in a darkening desert full of banditos, or going too fast around dangerous snaking curves in the failing light! The car cut out when we got stuck behind a slow moving lorry and we had to pull off the main road, but by a miracle it started again and we ploughed down this dirt road until we swirved back on to the highway, concentrating like hell, adrenaline pumping and laughing until we found Figgis and Jon.
The next day was spent in another Mexican garage until 4pm (the Mexican lunch break appears to be 2 hours)and there were ruptures in our group about whether to abandon our car or not. It was the fact that we had invested so much in it already that eventually made us shell out another 50 bucks each for a new fuel pump. It seemed to work, and we drove the last 4 hours down Baja to Le Paz where a drunk motel owner showed us to our room.
Looking at the map, you can see that to get from Le Paz to mainland Mexico directly requires you to get a ferry or drive all the way back up Baja and round, which means that the ferry companies can charge you what they like to go the small distance. Thus we had no choice but to shell out 100 dollars each to get us and the fatal car across to Topolabampo. The ferry was a day`s mission, boarding at one and arriving after ten, but the journey over the Sea of Cortes was beautiful. Jon and I saw some flying fish looking like little grey birds skimming over the air currents alongside the boat. The ferry itself was filled with rich Mexicans and their families who could afford to take holidays and drink copious cokes. I slunk away from the crowd a few times to find some quieter decks to share with my ipod. I saw a beautiful sunset sitting on the vibrating floor with my back against one of those FerryWhite walls. The reflections of the sun on the water looked like hundreds of fire mermaids swimming in a straight line just underneath the water from our ship to the horizon. Eventually the water put them out, and the sun disappeared.
When we arrived in Topolobampo it was pitch black. We`d all agreed not to drive by night what with the bandits and the police and it being Saturday night and all. Still, it was either drive or sleep on the side of the port so we set off to Los Mochis, the nearest town. It was one of the dodgiest places Ive ever seen; grimy, drunks staggering about, crazy drivers, no street signs or lights… It was past 11, so we decided to stay in one of the first hostels we found which turned out to be hell in a building. The room Jon and I stayed in simply had a sagging bed and a small plastic chair that had real human faeces smeared on it. Our matress was like a thin membrane over rusty springs, there were coackroaches in the cupboard, the room was cooler with the fan off and the whole place stank of vomit. Grim, but we were getting up at 5:30am anyway to do a big leg of our journey. I lay still for a few hours sweating and listening to music, grabbing a few spasms of sleep every in which I had nightmares of getting malaria (the room being so hot had forced us to leave the window open, providing a convenient cat flap for mosquitoes). At 5am I was wide awake and heard Jon groaning next to me, his night didn`t seem to be going that well either! He said he`d spent the whole night trying to concentrate on the light bulb because that was the only normal thing in the room. I got up, had a shower where the cubicle was full of wet tissue paper (!) in a bathroom where you couldnt sit on the toilet facing forwards because a wall was in the way.
It was pretty easy for us to leave that place early and begin our 600km jouney South. We were driving through Sinaloa and, according to the guide bok, that was one of the most dangerous regions for travellers, notorious for banditos, drugs and gringo haters, but we were comforted by the fact that it was Sunday morning and all the banditos were probably in confession being forgiven for their sins the night before. As we pulled on to the highway with no lane markings, it didn`t seem to be getting any lighter even though dawn dawn should have been breaking. In fact, it seemed to be getting darker. It started to rain, then it started to pour and then torrents of water started to gush from the sky with thunder and lightning clashing on all sides. At this point we are traveling quite fast down a dodgy road. Through the darkness, if you lent forward, we could just make out two little red brake lights of the lorry in front. We didn`t want to get too close to the lorry in case it had to brake suddenly, but we didn`t want to loose our guide through the rain either. We contemplated pulling over, but we couldn`t really see anywhere safe to do that and anyway we didn`t know anything about tropical storms; these things could go on for days! So we kept going, steadily, following the lorry, following the lorry and after about 45mins it started getting lighter as dawn began to break through the clouds.
Passed the storm, things were getting greener as we approached the Tropic of Cancer. The mountains were covered in lush green vegetation and the low grey clouds hovering in the valleys were making everything damp and cool. Gone were the desert sands, rock and cactii of Baha and in its place we had a cross between a South American rainforest and good old fashioned British countryside. We drove for 17 hours. I repeat, but I cannot stress the significance of this fact enough: we drove for 17 hours. We were aiming for Paul`s friend`s house just north of Puerta Vallarta and we weren`t going to stop until we got there. We arrived in the dark; lost, tired and hungry. We had`t been given the keys to the place we were staying and even when we did find it, there didn`t seem to be any door bell so Jon climbed up 3 floors like a spiderman and startled the elderly neighbours. Jon couldn`t understand why they were so frightened but then, Jon couldn`t see what he looked like. Wearing only a ragged, filthy pair of shorts and a pirate bandanna to hold back his gigantic ginger biffro that had been blown upwards by the speed of the wind passing our car for 17 hours, he must have looked like some pre historic caveman, a fact not helped by his lack of Spanish, his tendency to mumble and his ability to superhumanly climb up and infiltrate tightly locked buildings. The old couple were scared, wouldn`t listen to any explanation and threatened to call the police. After a lot more hassle we did however manage to get in and we have our treasure: two apartments between the four of us that are clean, have functioning fridges, fans and cutlery… I keep pacing around our apartment in bemusement wondering at these objects of civilisation! As for the area itself, Bucerias is a Western buble by the beach where loads of laid back Americans come to live. When an ethnic minority segregates itself in England, keeping its own language and culture and `refusing to integrate`we tend to criticise, but I haven`t had a chance to talk to the Mexicans feel about their own white segregated minority. For all my pretentious criticism though, its very very good to be here!
