BAJA North, MAY 2014

MEXICO OVERLAND

Border Crossing - May 2014

With my mind swimming in California memories and dreams of return adventures I braced for the much anticipated Mexican border crossing. This is what I came here for! On average I think it's fair to say that Americans aren't the biggest travelers, and most hold a strong fundamental fear of what lies south of the border... Mexico. I don't know which came first, the chicken or the egg, the fear or the disinterest but I know one thing for sure - according to all well intentioned advice-givers in the US - crossing that border in to Tijuana is about the most wild, daring and dangerous thing any single female could possibly consider doing. For the worlds most crossed border I found this intense aversion utterly surprising, but it gave me a scary buzz nonetheless, how exciting! Before leaving my beach hostel in San Diego I scribbled out all the bus, tram and train connections I would need to make the short journey to that border and tucked it safely in my bra. I aslo made a vague scratching note about where to buy a visa once I crossed and where to find the local bus station (taking the one bit of heathy advice - to get out of TIjuana ASAP once I crossed over).

Now, I've crossed more than a few borders in my time but this one takes the cake. "Was that it?!". With my little backpack and my big board bag I tentatively zig zagged my way from the train in search of the famous border crossing. I followed the mass movement of the crowd like a child getting swept through the corridors at the end of a footy match. In no way was it clear where to go, besides the stream of veteran Mexican border crossers that is. I felt like I was wandering a short maze of back streets and car parks then Ta Daaaaaa! The last clear demarkation I was to see for a long time: "MEXICO". Ha! I found yooooou! I scurried excitedly towards the sign and jiggled my surfboard vertically through the turnstyle eager to immerse myself in "MEXICO". Little did I know that just metres beyond this beautifully organised barricade was outrageously overwhelming spanish speaking chaos.

It was immediately clear that the Tijuana town planners had favoured the snakes and ladders theme when they paved the tangled streets and winding pedestrian overpasses. Suddenly my scratched out notes and spanish phrasebook I so confidently stowed in my back pocket provided no protection against the machine guns, starving children and pushy vendors that I had once hoped for. I need a visa! I need a bus station! Where arrrre theeeeeey!? Hawkers and street markets ebbed and flowed around me as my voice froze and I couldn't recall the limited spanish I needed. My eyes darted around like a lost little ferret when gradually the glorious glow of the Big M appeared in the distance. The familiar sight was like a light at the end of the tunnel, although I had no intention of going inside old Maccie D's I set my course in that direction building confidence once again (I know where I'm going! I'm going THERE!). Then there was a roundabout. Yes! I need a roundabout. Yessss! I tried about 100m in each direction before I ganied elevation on one side and spotted a cluster of buses down the hill. Oh sweet, sweet success is mine once more. Amidst the bus hunting I enquired in uninteligible spanish the whereabouts of immigration to purchase my visa but my words and accent were rubbish so I gave in and accepted the bus station as victory enough for one day. I tossed my board under the bus, gave the driver my destination in writing and coasted down the Mex 1 highway basking in my awesomeness... simple wins seem like bloody miracles when under a little pressure.

One of the greatest things about navigating Mexican highways is the kilometre marking system. At each major town or city the kilometre marks are reset and you can see markings along the highway saying "K20" or "K155" so even if you aren't going to a bus stop or major town you can specify exactly where you need to get off, it's brilliant! I was aiming for a small cluster called La Fonda at K55. The driver dropped me at K55, but I roamed up and down the highway looking for "the blue front, you can't miss it" without success. Ummm. Not this blue one. No? Not this blue one either? Sorry. I dropped my bags at what looked like the only proper hotel in town and trekked until I found it tucked down a level off the main road. I slowly squeaked open the front door with no response... piles of surfboards, stinky old wet suits hanging limp around the basement and a pool table told me I was in the right establishment! I crept up the stairs tentatively calling out with no response. Upstairs in the lounge sitting right there on the couch (snoozing) was Brendo and George (some Aussie's I met in California). We had hoped to meet up south of the border and hot diggity, it worked out perfectly! The lads had bought a van up in Cali and had dreams of driving all the way to South America. (After many months falling in love with Mexico their multi country dream turned in to a thorough Mexican road trip).

It's always a good feeling to unpack and create a bombsite of clothes, electronics and wet surfing gear. Even the dimmest of places become homely once my little bag explodes. KaBoom!

Like watching paint dry... staring at a cold dripping wetsuit won't make it dry any quicker. Nobody likes hopping around pulling on a yucky cold wetsuit. What happened to Mexico being a red hot desert? Stop it. I've had enough of wetsuits and blue lips. Ready to scoot south to add a few degrees to the ocean temp. But first things first, I must conquer a few waves, tick a few Baja boxes.

We gathered a small crew and spent a couple of days chasing surf around La Fonda and Rosarito. God damn it was cold! Mostly rock bottom point breaks or stone/pebble bottoms with a mix of lefts and rights. The lads' van was in struggle town at one break. It made a sketchy descent bouncing slowly down the track through small rainfall crevasses, crunching and bottoming out loudly due to the complete lack of suspension. The beast did a ten point turn at the base and got a pushing run up to make the great ascent afterwards.

We made it to the much-recommended K38 and limped and stumbled barefoot over the rocks up the beach cursing the cold. Months later in southern Mexico I would find myself begging for these cold rocks while I cried out in pain with burning skin peeling from my feet over the same (albeit burning) terrain. It soon became apparent that the paddle out would be more challenging than the surf. A long, slow, slog. Duck diving was breath taking and cold, my lungs gagged, then my deltoids burned as I followed the long board gliding effortlessly ahead of me. In hindsight there were far more appropriate places for me to have paddled out from haha. I'm such a sheep... but learning to wait and watch before diving in these days.

I surfed too long and didn't leave any energy in my reserve tank to paddle back to our entry point. When it came time to paddle back against the current to the bay we left the car in I was cringing and limp-limbed at the thought. I hate being the only weak girl in a group but I waved over one of the guys with my spaghetti arms and admitted my extreme fatigue and convinced him it was a totally great idea to paddle directly in to the bay under the cliffs and trek back. Ha! Quite the persuasive proposal in the end because two of the guys  followed me straight in over the rocks. One attempted to scale the point at sea level over the lower cliff face while the other followed me to a staircase ascending in to a heavenly resort that dominated the cliff top. The security guard greeted us in spanish and it was clear he was unimpressed by these dronwed-rat visitors that had ascended from the depths below. George broke out an amazing smile and proceeded to fix everything with a few concerned gestures towards me and then the ocean, speaking fluently and soothingly in spanish. Apparently he was pleading using my weak, female incompetence as an excuse haha, I have no problem with that! Before I knew it we were being escorted through the grounds and directed to a cliff route on the opposite side that would surely take us back to the car park in the distance.

We scrambled down an embankment and landed in another secure housing area full of dilapidated gringo shacks with enormous mechanical gates that separated us from the highway and our freedom. How do we get OUT!? We joked and planned our great escape to scale the security fence and carefully pass our boards over the top, when luckily we heard the sweet sounds of a rough australian accent and turned to see an outstretched arm pointing a remote at the gate. The gate grunted and whirred open. THANK YOU! We giggled and skipped down the highway dripping in our wetsuits and stumbling with sore bare feet on the edge of the road while gusts of wind rocked us from the trucks hurling by. More sweet success!

The region was good fun but George and Brendo were on a tight schedule (at this point still aiming for South America) so we decided to pack up and head south. We jumped back on the Mex 1 and began our wide-eyed cruising of Baja's mountainous deserts. Bring on Baja California South...