Life's a Beach

After disembarking from the La Paz to Mazatlan boat, we waited for a couple of hours at the ferry terminal exit, with Pascal, for one of the trucks to give us a lift to our next destination,Las Varras, a small town, about ten hours South of Mazatlan, where we would stay for the night, before heading to the lovely Chacala beach nearby.



We waited and waited and waited....... in vain. Some of the truckers wanted to give us a lift but had no room in their cabs and others simply waved 'hello' or 'goodbye'.

Eventually, a Mexican trucker gave the three of us a lift to a place he said would be easier to hitch a ride from. He took us to a Pemex gas station, an hour or so from Mazatlan. We thanked him and walked along the dusty highway to a place along the road, where we were more visible to the oncoming traffic.

The thing about hitchhiking, is you never know when someone's gonna come along and pick you up, so you wait and wait and wait some more and just when you think you're out of luck, some kind stranger pulls over and invites you into their world for a while and gives you a lift to boot. That day though, we realized that hitchiking in mainland Mexico was to be a different story from hitchiking in Baja. After hours and hours, standing by the roadside, with our handmade destination signs in our hands and our dusty little thumbs pointed to the sky, watching truck after truck zoom by, we decided to walk back into town and take the bus as far as we could that day.

The bus travel in mainland Mexico is cheap compared to Baja. The Mexican people rely on the buses as their main mode of transport and so the services are pretty reliable and comfortable. We managed to get a bus to Tepic and then on to Las Varras. Mexican buses can get very full, so finding a seat with your companion is sometimes impossible and we would occasionally find ourselves sitting next to strangers on our many bus rides through Mexico. A polite 'buenos dias' (Hello in Spanish) would usually break the ice and give way to pleasant and interesting conversation, except on the one occasion, when I sat next to some drunk guy who insisted on trying to give me warm beer and blowing kisses at me the whole seven hours of the bus ride!



On the bus journey to Las Varras, I again found myself seated next to a stranger. As Metso, Pascal and I, boarded the overcrowded bus, a young Mexican man, named Arturo stood up and offered me the seat next to him. He apologized in English to Metso and said that he would only give up the seat next to him, to me, so Metso politely smiled and sat behind us, whilst Arturo proceeded to talk to me at bionic speed, about his life and what was bringing him back to the town of Las Varras after ten long years. At first, the thought of enduring Arturo's whirlwind conversational skills for the whole five hour journey, filled me with dread and within the first twenty minutes of
our conversation, he had asked me three times if Metso was my boyfriend, three times I had replied 'Yes' and three times he had given me a very sad puppy dog look and said that he would like to be my boyfriend if I changed my mind about Metso!

As time rolled by with the wheels of the bus though, Arturo, I realized was a very intense and lovely kid. He told me all about his life in Fresco, U.S.A. where he had moved with his brothers over ten years before. He worked as a chef, as did Arturo's two brothers, one of whom had managed to buy his own restaurant. That was Arturo's dream also, to one day have his own restaurant. He told me he could cook all kinds of cuisine, Mexican (of course) Italian, Japanese. He also has a little girl whom he loves with all his heart and he told me heart warming stories of his efforts to teach her culinary skills from when she was four years old.

In the ten years that Arturo had been living and working in Fresco, he had not been back to Las Varras, his home town and had not seen his mother. He would have been about thirteen when he left Mexico and now he was a young, handsome father, on his way home to his mother's arms.

As we came closer to Las Varras, Arturo became more and more excited and I was moved and grateful that he had invited me to sit beside him to share this special journey. He had no idea if anyone would be waiting for him at the bus terminal and his mobile phone had just died, so he had no contact numbers for his friends or family but as the bus rolled into the dark and docile town of Las Varras, Arturo saw the face of his mother through the dark, reflective glass of the window. He smiled at me nervously and said 'mi madre' (my mother). As I looked out at the tiny figure of Arturo's mother, standing all alone at the bus station, in her traditional Mexican shawl,
her grey hair swept up into a neat chignon, my heart began to race at the thought of this wonderful reunion and I wondered what it would be like to experience such a meeting, after ten long years with the one who brought me into this world.

As we stood and waited for the driver of the bus, to unload our bags, we watched as Arturo and his mother embraced each other and cried. Love for these two strangers rose from somewhere inside and it was a mighty good feeling to see their reunion, we witnessed something very beautiful that night at the bus terminal in Las Varras.

Arturo and his mother invited the three of us to go and stay with them but we gratefully declined their very kind offer. Arturo's mother wrote down her address so we could go visit her if we wanted and we bid farewell to our new friends and found a room in a little hotel, to share for the night. We were all exhausted but managed to find a cute little taco stand for supper, before hitting the sack in our ramshackle little room.

Pascal left us in the early hours of the morning, to continue with his journey. He left behind a sweet note inviting us to stay with him anytime in Montreal and bidding us a safe journey.



Later that day, we bought some cake from a little street stall, to take to Arturo's mother. It took us a while to find her house, as it was off the beaten track and most of the locals seemed so amused to see us wandering around the area that they forgot to be helpful. We came across a group of pretty Mexican school girls in their uniforms, standing on a corner and amidst their good natured giggles and questions about my tattoos and England, we managed to find the house we were looking for.

We knocked on the door and peered through the open windows of the large house but their was no sign of anyone home. We were about to give up, when the lady who lives across the street from Arturo's mother, came out of her house and insisted that there was someone home. She called out and sure enough, Arturo's mother came running to the door. We were happy to see her and she was happy to see us. No English was spoken but we presented our hostess with the cake and gathered from her excited banter that although Arturo had left for the beach already with his friends, we would be more than welcome to stay and eat with her and her husband.

The house was very big by usual Mexican standards and was very well kept and homely. Many pictures of Jesus and Mary stared down from the walls at us and Arturo's mother was very interested in our religion, I didn't have the heart to tell her that we were about the furthest thing from Christians that she was ever likely to meet and after one more hug and a warm goodbye, we headed off back into town where we took a communal taxi to the beautiful beach town of Chacala.

The journey from Las Varras to Chacala, takes about 30 mins by road. The idea is, to squeeze as many bodies as possible into the little van and off we go, bumping along through the pretty hills and palm trees in the afternoon sun with a great big smile on our faces because life is mighty good right now.....

We spent the next few days and nights in absolute bliss and harmony in Chacala. The beach is a long white expanse of sand, surrounded with jungle on one side.
There are a few big bar/restaurants where you can eat the most gorgeous fresh fish and prawns and the ocean is absolutely clear and beautiful.

This was our first time camping in mainland Mexico, so we stayed at the campground on the beach, where we met some lovely folk, such as Lymon, a sweet American guy, a real old timer with a long white beard and a community spirit. We pitched our tent between Lymon's semi permanent residence and a cool little brown camper van, which we later discovered, belonged to a friendly young couple from Canada, Richard and Omana.

Richard and Omana, are teachers, they had made a couple of records of educational songs for children, about history and culture and they were very generous with their tea, well we were neighbors after all. We hit it off immediately and shortly after pitching our tent, not long after arriving at Chacala, Omana and I took our guitars on to the beach and enjoyed a nice chilled out day.

At one point we were surprised to see a young Mexican man running towards us with a huge smile on his face, shouting and waving. As he bounded closer and closer, kicking up sand, droplets of sea water jumping from his skin, I realized that it was Arturo! After virtually crashing into the sand where we were sitting and giving me a bear hug, Arturo introduced himself to Omana.

I told Arturo that Metso and I had been to visit his mother that morning, he was so touched and it was evident that he was very glad to be home if only for a brief spell. He was with some of his old buddies and they wanted to take him out on the town so he was having a last splash in the sea for the day. He asked Omana if she had a boyfriend and told her he was looking for a girl for the week if she was interested. I wondered if the stunned look of disbelief on my Canadian girlfriend's face was in any way similar to mine the night before, when I had first met Arturo on the bus to Las Varras and he had asked me over and over if i would not reconsider my love for Metso and choose him instead (just for a week)..... I assured Omana that Arturo meant no harm and as he wrote down his phone number for Metso and I to call him if we were ever in Fresco, water dripping everywhere, wearing nothing but his black, skinny little speedos, I thought, what a sweet kid. Good luck to you Arturo, wherever you are, hope you find your girl some day!

We had a lot of fun at Chacala, playing music and watching the sunset, we spent most evenings with Richard and Omana and a young Mexican belly dancer named Fleur, with dark intense eyes . A camp fire, guitar, a few beers and the laughter of new friends, fellow travelers with your true love by your side is pretty much one of the best times there is.



As the biggest National Mexican holiday of Esta Semana (similar to Easter holiday) approached, the camp site started to fill up almost over night. We awoke one morning to the familiar sound of a mexican truck close by and realized in a sleepy daze, that we were in our tent, in a camp site so how come...... we jumped up, afraid that the truck would simply drive over the tent with us inside but luckily, the driver had stopped just short of us and was now roping off the area around us to mark out the ground, where he and his family would camp and enjoy the holidays.

Our new neighbor wasn't the only one claiming his ground either, a whole convoy of Mexican families had travelled over night to get to Chacala by morning and they were all busy surveying the campsite for the best spot and once they found it, they were going to keep it!

It was quite something to see the transformation of the sleepy laid back Chacala of the day before into the bustling mayhem of a Mexican beach town preparing for Esta Semana. A sight that had once been alien to us and became very familiar over the next couple of weeks.



The trucker who had parked so close behind us, asked us if we would move and we decided to go and camp on the beach that night, it would be our last night at Chacala. We had a few beers with Richard, Omana and Fleur and a couple of young sweet stoner kids who worked at some hotel nearby, we sang a few songs and then bid farewell to each other. As we passed the overcrowded campsite, on our way to our little tent on the beach, the stray dogs, happily chasing their tails and feasting on the remains of food left by the new campers, no one bothered us and we had a good sleep, closer to the ocean and out by ourselves.

The next morning, we packed up our things in the morning sun and said goodbye to Chacala. We caught the communal taxi back to Las Varras and caught a bus from there to Puerto Vallarta.

Our friend Rojo (see Playa de Oro chapter) had told us to try and visit his favourite place in Mexico, Yelapa. To get there you must take a bus to Puerto Vallarta,a huge tourist resort (not our cup of tea at all) and another bus from there to a lovely little bay and fishing community called Boca Tomatlan. From Boca, we were supposed to take a half hour boat journey over to Yelapa. However, we missed the last boat. All was not doomed though, as Ramone, the very kind owner of the beach front restaurant, where we had eaten dinner, had got chatting with us and invited us to pitch our tent in his restaurant for the night. We gratefully accepted his offer and the next day, woke up nice and early and caught the first boat over to Yelapa.

The boat taxis are a thrilling experience and the other passengers were very helpful in getting us off the boat in one piece with our back packs and other bits and pieces.
The driver of the boat and his assistants managed to fit a very healthy number aboard and amused us no end with their method of shuffling everyone around like pawns, in order to balance the boat as well as possible for the bumpy trip around the corner to Yelapa.



We arrived at around 9.00am and had breakfast at Dominic's, a typical palapa restaurant. We enjoyed fresh squeezed orange juice, the most delicious huevos rancheros (Mexican egg breakfast dish) and Lorenzo, a very sweet American guy who worked as a waiter and had been staying in Yelapa for half the year for many years. He told us that Bob Dylan used to have a place in Yelapa and it was fun hearing Lorenzo weave in and out of his various facts and information about Yelapa.

Rojo had told us to seek out his very good friend, Freddy, once we got to Yelapa, he said he'd take care of us. Lorenzo pointed Freddy out to us and we asked if we could camp in his place. Freddy is native Yelapan and his mom owns the local night club. He lives on the beach with his wife Olivia and their beautiful little girl. He has a palapa hut on the beach with hammocks, a couple of beds and plenty of space for a couple of tents. We pitched the tent inside the palapa shelter and adopted a very good guard dog who watched over us every night as we slept. Our un-appointed guardian would come and lie down next to our tent, shortly after we would go to bed. We would hear him stagger to his feet to chase off various people who wandered a little close to our tent. Barking like a mad dog and growling a ferocious warning to anyone around to hear him, our brave dog soldier would saunter back to position and take up his post once more until morning, when he would vanish. We only saw him once or twice and we thanked him sincerely for his kind attention. He was a no nonsense kind of dog and simply bowed his head in acknowledgment and that was that.



We fell in love with Yelapa. Our days were spent swimming, playing the guitar and walking into town to dine in the evenings. We were told about the local restaurant, Pollo Bollo by Jose, one of the guys who worked on the beach, selling stuff. He said we should check it out. It was brilliant! We waited for about half an hour for a table. The restaurant was jam packed full of Mexican families and couples, enjoying the lovely outdoor candlelit atmosphere and probably the tastiest chicken in Yelapa!

The tiny little town of Yelapa sprawls and meanders in every direction with steep walks to a waterfall and lovely little cantinas tucked in every corner. In the evenings, the town becomes a sleepy, lamplight beauty. There is a large tree at the town's entrance, where the chickens perch and sleep. Jose told us that each chicken returns every evening to the same branch of the tree and we watched with smiles, as they rustled and bustled into their night positions, much like a group of old ladies, proud and wise at the end of a long day.

The horses which are rented out to take people to the waterfall, rest on their heels and others carry their owners through the little streets of Yelapa. There are no cars and only the main street is covered with cobble stones.

Unfortunately, crack cocaine had hit Yelapa some time ago, making some of the local kids crazy and causing a whole lot of trouble, so the Mexican police force were ever present, mainly on the beach where I guess they'd had a few problems with drug dealing in the past. We didn't see any ugly stuff going on but our friends told us that crack had got a pretty good grip on Yelapa. It would be a big shame to see such a cool place ripped apart by crack, hope they snub it out.

Every day, boat taxis ferry crowds of tourists from Puerto Vallarta to Yelapa for about four hours, to drink cocktails and lie on the sun beds provided by the bigger restaurants along the beach. In these hours, Yelapa would become a different creature, bristling with the brilliance and sheen of the tourist collective. We usually headed into town or chilled out in our palapa huts when they descended upon us.



At night, the beach was altogether different. Almost hushed, except for the few people who lived on and around the beach and a handful of travelers. Only a couple of bars would stay open at night. One bar had flame torches outside and allowed people to build a camp fire outside. It was very dark at night, so the flames were comforting and warm, though we hit the sack early most nights, preferring to wake with the sun.

One day, a cool German guy with long blond hair and viking characteristics, called Nico, turned up with his wife and her sister, who were from Mexico City and their lovely little girl. Nico has a club in Berlin called Sage. They were a sweet family and when we finally packed up our tent and decided to continue with our journey, they moved their tent into our spot.

We made our way back to Puerto Vallarta, where we embarked on the 8 hour bus journey to Tenacatita. The bus dropped us off at the highway turn off for Tenacatita. In the middle of nowhere and we wondered if we would be able to walk the 10 km to the beach. Luckily, the closer you are to a beach in Mexico, the more likely your chances are of getting a lift in one direction or another.



We hitched to Melaque on the back of a pick up truck with a pleasant group of young Mexican boys on vacation. A breezy, bumpy hour later, we arrived in Tenacatita. Esta Semana (the Mexican Easter holiday) had brought many Mexican families to the huge beach and raucous, Mexican Mariachi pop music blared, full blast from the multitude of bars and restaurants that lined the beach. When finally resigned to pitching our tent in a tight, noisy spot between a cluster of other tents, the weather had become considerably cooler and we spent a restless night, regretting that we had left Yelapa so soon. The music took on a rave vibe at around 3.00 am and continued to disturb us until morning. Pumping relentlessly, an organic throb that managed to pervade all dreams and nibble away at our will to live : )

We left Tenacatita at the earliest opportunity and took a long bus journey to Maruata, a very beautiful beach with wonderful coves and rock formations. The other beaches had been packed with Mexican famillies but at Maruata, it seemed as though a whole town full of Mexican teenagers had telepathically decided that they would spend their Easter vacation at Maruata.

We pitched our tent beneath a large palapa shelter, amidst row upon row of tents, occupied by cool young Mexican kids. Maruata, we were told, is usually a desolate and tranquil place but at that time, it felt very much like the campground of a pop festival. A lot of joints, some acid and ecstacy and the kids were in full swing. Night fell and we stood by the fire of a drum circle. The Mexican guys played their djambes and people sang and joined in. The music was hypnotic and tribal. There was a fire dancer and we enjoyed the relaxed vibe of Maruata, save for the Mexican policemen that we would sometimes spot, lurking in the corners or questioning some unlucky Mexican teen reveler about the joint in his hand.

That night, the music raved on as we tossed and turned it and seemed to penetrate every thread of our being. We pleaded to the god of partying for some sweet relent, some moment of peace . Our prayers went unanswered and I felt the unmistakable onset of a nasty flu and by the next afternoon, I felt really bad. We spent the next day sat on the beach in the blazing sun, chatting with some sweet kids from Guadalajara.



We all watched in amusement, as some Mexican rasta kid danced to loud reggae and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion. As the afternoon blistered on, his two female companions tried in vain to lift him out of the ocean as he fell every which way, sometimes dragging them down with him. They finally managed to drag him back to his tent and we all laughed and waved at each other, it wasn't too long after that, I crawled into our tent and fell into a feverish sleep. That night, even the hyper tension bombastic beats of acid rave seemed far away, although not far enough!

We left Tenacatita the next afternoon, it took a long time to pack everything due to my feeling like a zombie. I don't remember too much about the journey to Caleta de Campos, except for the absolute relief, after our long, long walk through the town, to the main beach and along the beach to a desolate little bay that whispered promises of a restful sleep. Something that we needed badly after our week caught in the speaker cab of the Mexican party holiday that is Esta Semana!

It had been a long hot walk from the bus stop at the edge of town, down to the beach and on to the private cove which we were desperate to camp at. By the time we arrived, I was feeling very very weak due to my flu and we sat down on a rock to rest. We noticed a large group of Mexican people at the other end of the beach, they had been cooking some food on a fire and one of the ladies in the group came over to greet us.



She politely informed us that we couldn't stay on the beach as it was owned by their friend and was private. This news was a blow to us, after all our efforts to find some peace for a few days and we tried to explain that we would be no trouble and leave no evidence of our stay but that we would really appreciate them letting us camp here in their peaceful refuge. She said that we wouldn't be allowed to stay but kindly offered to refill our bottle of water which was much appreciated by us , as the afternoon sun was now shimmering with a fierce heat.

I was so tired and down hearted and as we sat, not feeling capable of enduring yet another night of Esta Semana party volume pumping through our tent, which was inevitable on the main, crowded beach, I began to weep.

We knew that there were no private beaches in Mexico and this was the first time anyone had denied us camping in Mexico but we were in no mood to argue and I was very fatigued but just didn't feel like I could move from the spot any time soon.

The Mexican lady came back with our refilled water bottle and was visibly moved by the obvious distress we were in. We thanked her sincerely for the refill and promised that we would be on our way soon as we felt we could get our packs on again and walk to the main beach. She smiled and went back to her group, who looked as though hey were getting ready to leave. She brought us over some of their left over food, tacos and various culinary treats that bucked up our spirits no end.
She also said that she had spoken with her friend who owned the house at the top of the beach and he had said that we may camp on the beach but no one else was to be allowed to camp there and that we must leave no litter.

We were so happy! We thanked the group profusely and they left shortly after in their vans. The nights and days that followed were like a gift from the gods! Bliss, peace and harmony, on one of the loveliest little beaches on the planet!

We would make the long walk into town, every day, to shop for food to cook on the fire in the evening. We would drink from coconuts at coconut stand on our way up the hill into the lovely little town. There was a market and a decent grocery and vegetable shop, a butcher that sold the freshest and most tasty meat and numerous cafes where you could drink licquados (fresh juice and milk blended ice cold drinks). I managed to buy various medicines for my flu, I had acquired a nasty cough with the bug which would start at around 10.00pm and continue throughout the night.



Metso cooked the most delicious fish dinner one evening, it was a feast! Baked potatoes with Oaxaca cheese, guacamole, refried beans and fresh fish to die for, all cooked to perfection on our beach fire. The only thing to remember whilst eating around the campfire at night is, use your torch at all times (actually try to cook and eat dinner before it starts to get dark!) and don't leave your dinner plate on the floor, someone is bound to step in to it, like I stepped into Metso's dinner! Luckily, it was his second dish but a drag just the same!


Our time on the beautiful little beach of Caleta de Campos was very special and in the week that we spent there, we were never disturbed and enjoyed immensely, the very personal, seemingly private views of the sun rising and setting over the ocean.

One afternoon, a Mexican couple and their two children visited our little beach. They seemed to be enjoying their vacation, splashing around in the sea and sunbathing.
We hadn't ventured into the sea, as so often in Mexico, the waves were pretty strong and on this particular beach, the rocky coves surrounding the water, were rough little whirlpools, we were happy to watch the ocean rather than test it.

However, we watched as the children jumped happily in the white foam spray of the sea and all seemed good....until we saw the little girl screaming and trying to get out of the water. She was about 12 years old and her brother , who was bobbling around a few yards from her and closer to the rocks than she was, must have been about 10 years old. It was obvious that the little boy was caught in some kind of current and we watched with concern as their father dived from the sand and into the ocean to save his little boy.

Their daughter was screaming and crying but had made it out of the ocean alright. She was hysterical with worry and we were worried that their may be another child in the ocean, other than her brother but that wasn't the case. I tried to calm her and held her in my arms for a while but her worry overcame her and as we watched her father unsuccessfully try to reach his son, still caught in the current and looking scared and tired but thankfully still afloat, his poor sister ran screaming to the next beach.

Metso and I could see that, although strong, the man in the sea, trying to save his son was not a good swimmer and was unable to break through the very tempestuous current. Metso could watch no more. He ran into the ocean and swam to where the little boy was, now dangerously panicking and tired and calmly and surely brought him away from the rocks and onto the shore. Our hero!

We all watched with relief as Metso swam to shore with the little boy, who was visibly shocked. We gave him water and as his sister came running back from the other beach, he was obviously very aware of how close he had been to danger. After a while of recovery and reflection, the family, looking a lot more sombre and not at all, the jovial family, who had first come that morning, gathered themselves together and slowly walked away from the beach.

The little boy's father came to thank Metso for helping his son but he was still obviously suffering from shock and could only manage a couple of words. I kissed Metso and thanked him for being so cool. Afterwards, I reflected on the situation and wondered what would have happened, had the group who had been on the beach when we first arrived, not allowed us to camp there. Maybe their act of kindness to two strangers, saved that little boy's life. Maybe not, I guess we'll never know but I sure was glad that Metso and I were there that day, at that beach and that all was well.



We celebrated Metso's triumph over the ocean with kebabs cooked on our little fire and warm beer.

The next day, We said goodbye to our lovely little beach at Caleta de Campos and walked up the steep steps carved into the rock , which lead back onto the road where we caught a bus to Lazaro Cardenas. Another bus journey and about six hours later, we arrived at the industrial outskirts of the cool little beach town of Zihuatanejo.

LA PAZ TO MAZATLAN- JOURNEY TO THE MAINLAND


Not too long after we waved good bye to our new friend, Gord, a beat up old pick up truck swung by and the pleasant smile of Sergio, the driver invited us to ride with him.
At first, we didn't realize that he was going all the way to La Paz, where we were headed, to catch the ferry over to Mainland Mexico. We only thought we'd be squashed like a couple of sardines into the front seat of the pick up truck for a few hours, which seemed bearable.

As we chugged and bumped our way back on to the highway, two things became very obvious, this was going to be a long journey, no matter how long the duration in real time and that our driver, Sergio liked to drive fast in his exhausted little truck!

The road from Loreto to La Paz is fairly winding and the beautiful desert mountains seem to shimmer and burn in the midday sun. Sergio didn't speak too much English but seemed happy to take us with him on his journey to pick up a cargo of fish. We grasped on to the curves of the Mexican Highway 1 in Sergio's poorly vehicle, which coughed and spluttered at various points and demanded that we stop every now and then, so that Sergio may fill its leaking tank with oil. We struggled and moaned quietly, as we exacted the yoga type stamina required, to stuff our asses into the ancient seats which cajoled and bullied us into contortionist style positions, so that we might stay upright as we surfed the bumps in the road.



It was around the time that the exhaust pipe fell from the underneath of the truck that Sergio pointed out that he had to go all the way to La Paz to receive his cargo. We were halfway there already and we decided to accompany him all the way, after all, now that the exhaust had fell off, we were pretty sure that Sergio would ease up on his speed from now on.

We squashed ourselves back in to our seats and with a reassuring smile, our driver and host, proceeded to bomb it as fast as he could down the highway. I'm not sure exactly how old Sergio is, maybe in his late fifties, early sixties but one can't help wondering if he may yet still have time to make it as a race driver, I can see him now, honest, intelligent eyes,
unconcerned smile, beneath his creme cowboy hat, blasting around the race track, hell for leather and no time to stop for nobody.

When we were about an hour away from La Paz, we were pulled over by a Mexican cop. He sternly asked us to leave the vehicle and after a few minutes of questioning Sergio, the cop started quizzing me and Metso. In these situations, I would do the speaking, as my poor Spanish was slightly more comprehendible to the Mexicans, than Metso's poor Spanish.

The cop asked us where we were from, what we were doing in Mexico and what our relationship was with Sergio, I must have answered satisfactorily, as he let us go and with only a light scolding to Sergio, to kill his speed for the rest of our journey.

As we took off, Sergio seemed suitably chastised by the cop and explained in Spanish that the cop who stopped us, had told him that he wasn't a race driver and to stop driving so fast!

We arrived safe and disheveled at La Paz and bid farewell to our sweet little race driver as he swerved back onto the Mexican Highway 1 and was swallowed instantly, by the huge snake of traffic which writhed and glistened beneath the hot blue sky.

We stayed one night in La Paz, in a cheap and small hotel, it was a good feeling to sleep in a bed, after five weeks of camping and to have a semi hot shower also felt luxurious.

The next day, we made our way to the ferry ticket office, only to be told that the boat to Mazatlan no longer leaves from La Paz and that we had to take a bus about an hour out of town, where we may embark on our ferry journey to mainland Mexico.

We arrived at the ferry terminal and whilst we were waiting to book our ticket to Mazatlan, we met a young guy called Pascal, from Montreal. Pascal was also traveling to mainland Mexico and we spent the next couple of days traveling together.



The boat ride to Mazatlan takes 18 hours, we took the lead of various other passengers, after boarding the ferry and reserved a few seats each by placing our packs and coats across them, so that we would be able to stretch out and sleep that night. A lot of the passengers on the boat, were Mexican truckers taking cargo to Mexico. They usually sleep in their truck cabins, which meant that there would be plenty of space for the foot passengers to relax and get some sleep when the sleepy veil of night eventually fell over us.

It was a fair day and as we made our way out on to the deck, I was blown kisses from random directions, as the Mexican guys drank beer and smiled at us, seemingly unaware that it was considered very bad form to stare and blow kisses at young ladies, even in parts of Mexico! I blew a kiss back to one old Mexican guy who was being particularly seedy
in his amorous gestures and he nearly fell overboard!




We whiled away the day, drinking beers and chatting to our fellow travelers, I played some guitar for one group of guys who were really lovely, they enjoyed chatting and no doubt found my appalling broken Spanish quite amusing. One man gave us a souvenir Baja t-shirt as a gift and we distributed some beer and cigarettes amongst our shipmates. It was a very pleasant evening and we were even invited by one of our new trucker friends, to stay in his truck cabin, rather than having to sleep on ferry seats but we declined his offer and
and actually enjoyed quite a good night's sleep as our boat soared through the Sea of Cortez and on to Mazatlan.



I awoke at around 6.00am and went to watch the sunrise with Pascal and a sweet young Mexican kid that we had met the night before. The sun appeared as a molten phantom, strange and dislocated but as always, beautiful and awe inspiring.

Eventually, the modern tower blocks and skyscrapers of the city emerged and seagulls bobbed alongside our boat as we made progress towards Mazatlan, in an hour or so, we docked in the harbour, our boat trip at an end and our journey into the mainland just beginning...........

El Coyote

After walking the 3km to the Pemex at the edge of the dirt road from San Ignacio, we saw a Mexican trucker, called Jose, with lovely green eyes and black curly hair and ran over to ask him if he'd take us to the town of Mulege. He said 'si' and we put our stuff in his cab. Jose is a very sweet guy and the journey was very pleasant, with Jose cracking jokes on his c.b. radio to his companion who was following us in his truck behind. Unfortunately, we couldn't understand much of what he said but our language differences didn`t stop us all having a good laugh when he would pretend to shoot the rabbits and birds that darted across our path in the afternoon sun. Jose would also pretend to shoot at us with his fingers when we wouldn`t accept his kind offers to share his soda, biscuits or cigarettes. Such is the generosity of so many of the truckers who gave us rides through the Baja.It is not enough that they share their truck, their time with us, not to mention taking us distances of hundreds and hundreds of miles but they also shared their kindness and good humour. We will always think of them as our guardian angels and made a point of saluting all truckers along the highway with the Baja wave, which is kind of a peace sign that allows the truckers to wave without taking their hands off the wheel. We jumped out of Jose`s truck after leaving him a pack ofcigarettes and walked about 1km into town but we knew Mulege and decided to head straight for the campsite before it got too dark. After walking in along the highway, in the hot hot heat for another 2km, we arrived at the Orchard camp site. There wasn't much grass around so we headed for the next campsite, Villa Maria Isobell, another 2km along the road. When we arrived, it was evident that the Villa Maria campsite was geared towards motor homes and tourists who need swimming pools at their campsites (need I say, not our kind of place!) so we decided to head for the beach to camp which was about a 40 min walk from the Villa Mara campsite. We were pretty tired and hungry at that point, so we made our way back to a sign we had seen for a restaurant on our way to the last campsite. When we arrived at the little R.V. site, we saw that the restaurant was closed, disheartened and bewidered by our luck, we scratched our heads and wandered towards the exit when we were spotted by the owner, Ken, a friendly America chap who invited us to join him and his family and friends for dinner at the restaurant, which they closed to the public on Sundays. We gratefully accepted and removed our hot, heavy back packs to sit down to what was a veriable feast of delightful dishes, cooked by Ken's family and friends. We ate a Mexican dish of chicken and melted cheese and fruit salads with rice, finished off with a delicious Mexican desert called Flange. Deeeelicious! With our bellies full and the sky now bursting with stars, we made the short trek to the beach, it was very hard to see where we were going, even with our torches shining and when we arrived at the rocky beach, we realised that this was no spot to camp, there was debris everywhere and an abandoned, creepy atmosphere which was forboding to us at that late hour.We were at a loss as to where we would stay that night. The first campsite that we had visited, the Orchard, was by far the best place for us but it was a 4km walk back down the highway and after our long day and the risky buisiness of walking along side the highway at night against us, we started to think that we might have to pitch our tent by the dirt road that runs along side the beach. Along this dirt road, are a few houses, owned mainly by Americans, I knocked on a couple of doors to ask if anyone knew of any places to camp, closer than the Orchard campsite, in the vain hope that someone might have a back yard that we could pitch our tent in for the night, (it was now about 9.15pm) I was met with confusion and abrupt refusals, one American guy even told me to speak English! So, we sat by the road side and waited and waited.... and waited. Eventually, a Mexican lady and her young son drove by in her pick up truck. I flagged her down and asked her if she would take us to the Orchard campsite, she smiled and said ''si !'' Hallelujah! With the merriest of hearts, we jumped in the back of her pick up and were well on our way when we realised that my back pack was still lying on the road some way behind us! We knocked on the window and in a worried flurry explained that my bag had been left behind, by this time, she'd got the drift of what had happened and was already reversing her little pick up truck all the way back to where she had picked us up. All was well and when we arrived at the Orchard campsite, we had to force our lady driver to accept a couple of dollars for her kind and valliant actions that had so helped two tired strangers out that night. we pitched our tent at the peaceful Orchard campsite and went to sleep thanking our lucky stars for the kindness ofstrangers once again. The next day, we made a hitching sign for El Coyote, a little beach that our friends, Bill at Playa de Oro had told us to visit. In about 20 mins, a kind Mexican guy took us there in his pick up truck. When we arrived at the El Coyote trailer park, it was derelict and abandoned and had been for many years. We kept walking to the beach and found it to be absolutely lovely. The days and nights that followed at El Coyote can only be described as wonderful. We had found a large palapa building at the far end of the beach, which we had assumed to be a bar/ restaurant and finding no one around to object, had pitched our tent in front of it. This proved to be an excellnt decision, as the owners never showed up for the five or six days that we chilled there and so we were able to make use of their very sweet patio which was a luxury for two beach campers used to rocks for chairs! We would sit at nights, watching the stars which were very,very beautiful and bright, in the big round chairs from the palapa patio.We ate baked potatoes, tuna and guacamole around the camp fire and I would play El Niño whilst Metso practiced playing his harmonica that we picked up in L.A. Other times, we would go and eat fabulous chile rellenos (large chillies stuffed with cheese) at the little restaurant, Estrella del Mar by the highway, a short distance from El Coyote beach and shoot pool with the very sweet owner Bonney and his friends. There are a couple of beer stands in the area, a shortwalk along the highway from El Coyote and here you can find beer, water and basic provisions. One day, we're getting cigarettes from one of the beer stands that sit along the highway, when a Mexican guy and his wife invite us to join them for a beer and to play some guitar. I usually carry El Niño around with me, as the people here LOVE music! If there is an opportunity to play, sing or dance (or preferrably all three), you can be sure that the locals will seize it as readily as a thirsty man will seize a bottle of water (or beer if available!). That day we played and sang our songs and had a lovely time.The Mexican guy had the sweetest voice and played very well, he sang songs old and new from Mexico and I sang a few of my tunes old and new also.....By the afternoon, we had ourselves a little party, as we had been joined by a couple of local fishermen, Daniel and Angel and a very odd but entertaining pair, Iris and her hilarious partner, known by the locals as the Pink Panther, due to his skinny, pale demeanour. Daniel and Angel shared their catch of fresh clams with everyone and they were really delicious. They showed us how to remove the stomach before eating and which sauce went best with different types of clam. Iris and the Pink Panther entertained everyone with their dunken banter and I sang a few songs. As the cerveza and the afternoon sun kicked in, the party was in full swing and our friend, the Pink Panther, was in the mood to get free and natural. Franco, the lovely owner of the little beer stand, had put on some pretty cool electro party music and it was doing things to the PinkPanther, making him wan to jump on the table and pull down his shorts to swing his thing for his new friends! Well we all applauded at first but eventually after the third or fourth exposure to the Pink Panther`s tackle, we were hiding our faces and the topic of conversation had moved onto size and his friends were having a good laugh at the Panther`s expense, all in good fun of course! At night fall, we bid farewell to the party in favour of dinner at Bonney's and a few rounds of pool before contentedly crawling into our little sleeping bags for some well earned sleep! The next day, we were informed by our fishermen friends, Daniel and Angel, that the Pink Panther and Iris had been taken to the Mulege jail for the night but no one seemed to know why. Needless to say speculation and intrigue blossomed and it was to everyone`s good natured amusement that the Pink Panther had entered into legendary status for us all, as the most notorious guy in town! We found quite a few new friends at El Coyote, one of whom was some what better behaved than the Pink Panther but very fun to be with and we will treasure the night that we spent on the beach with our friend Gord from B.C. We had met Gord at Bonney's place and he asked if we felt like going to his trailer to play some guitar and shoot the breeze on our last night at El Coyote. Gord sang songs by Steve Earl (one of my heroes) and AllenJackson and I played some of my songs. We had a lovely evening with some fine conversation and enjoyed Gord`s enlightening and inspiring view of the world. At the end of the evening, Gord very graciously offered to take us to the little town of Loreto the next day, from there we could hitch a ride to La Paz. We accepted his kind offer and the next day, we spent the afternoon with Gord in the lovely little town of Loreto, where we shared lunch together and some wonderful stories about Gord`s fascinating life. It was hard to continue with the days travelling, as we could easily have spent the whole day having fun with Gord but eventually, we bid farewell and he dropped us off at the Pemex(gas station) just outside town, where we made our hitching sign for La Paz and waited for our next ride.

San Ignacio - Sweet Oasis

Lou dropped us off at the dirt road which turns off the highway and into
the sleepy little Oasis town of San Ignacio.

We walked the 3km walk into the town, glad to be walking again and looking
forward to eating the delicious tacos from the taco man who has a stand in
the small town square.



The road into town is lined by tall date palms and the surrounding lagoon
makes night time walking an eerie and exotic experience, the voices of all
the nocturnal creatures that inhabit the area creating an alien chorus to
welcome the two tired travellers.

We came face to face with a rather big, grumpy bull which gruffly ran
across the road and threatened to charge. We kept walking and I nervously
wondered what we would do if the big guy decided to take us on. Metso said
we should stand our ground so I quickened my pace somewhat!

We arrived at the very pleasant El Padrino camp ground which is just on the
outskirt of town, where we pitched our tent for the night, before heading
into the town square for our late night tacos from our trusty taco man,
which were, as always, delicious.



The town square of San Ignacio is the heart of the town. A lovely white
church stands at it's edge and watches over the activity. Children play and
neighbours meet here, the caballeros (herds men) eat tacos and all is well
in this really good little town.

The next day, we were greeted by the two piglets that live on the grounds,
very cute!We met a nice couple, Sue and Royson who were travelling in their
very sharp motorhome and a musician called Katrina, who was just leaving,
she had been travelling all over the states, busking with her guitar but we
didn't get chance to hear her stories maybe some other time.

After grabbing some huevos rancheros (Mexicna breakfast with eggs and
tortillas) in town, we went in search of our friend Sylvia, the lovely lady
who let us stay in her vacant house on our last visit to San Ignacio, over
a year ago.



She and her husband were gathering papayas and cleaning the grounds of
their old tyre/car workshop, which is now for sale. When she saw us, Sylvia
dropped her broom and came running over, very pleased and surprised to see
us.

She took us back to her house and we ate nachos and chatted with her
daughter Grethel for most of the afternoon. Sylvia doesn't speak English,
so our conversations are mostly made with hand signs and smiles.

After a lovely afternoon with Sylvia and her daughter, we were invited back
for breakfast the next day, we gratefully accepted and headed back to the
campground.

We built a fire and Sue and Royson, the couple we had met earlier, came
over and asked if we felt like having fish for dinner. We did! They had
brought them fresh from Bahia de Los Angeles, the day before and were
cooking them with garlic and squash and all kinds of tasty stuff.

Our dinner was lovely and later, Sue and Royson came to sit by the fire and
share some stories and listen to some songs. I played Wings in Motion and
Hot Lips. It is a real pleasure to play for people we meet along the way,
especially by the flames of an open fire with new friends.



Sue and Royson told us stories about their travels and we told them some of
ours, we had a lovely evening and were mighty grateful for the delicious
fish they had so kindly shared with us.

Breakfast at Sylvia's house, the next day was very nice. She and her
daughter, Grethel, made us waffles with eggs and bacon and syrup mmmmmmmmm,
thanks Sylvia!

After finishing breakfast and bidding fairwell to Sylvia and Grethel, we
walked 3km to the Pemex gas station to catch our next ride to the town of
Mulege.

Balls of Steel - Cataviña to San Ignacio

We decided to head out of Cataviña the next day, as the rain showers and
heavy grey clouds threatened heavier rains to come and the boulders would be
difficult to negotiate on our way out of the arroyo when wet.

We walked a couple of km's into town and saw a young Mexican guy tending
to his truck.

We approached him and asked if he would take us to San Ignacio. We wanted
to say hello to a lady called Sylvia who lives there, she kindly let us stay
in her vacant house for a few days last time we were in San Ignacio and we
wanted to take her some gifts and catch up with her.

It is a 9 hour drive from Cataviña to San Ignacio on the Mex 1. The truck
driver courteously (if a little apprehensively) agreed to take us. So we
set off.



The driver, Lou, spoke no English. He pumped up the volume of his c.d.
player, which was screaming out the Bee Gees when we first jumped into his
truck and we barely spoke for a couple of hours, when he did speak, it was a
rapid fire Tijuana dialect and we had trouble understanding his questions
and answers.

One thing that we did understand though, when he pulled over at a nearby
truck stop and brought out some tin foil loaded with little white rocks, was
´´ Crystal´´. He smiled and proceeded to chase the crystal dragon through a
straw, for a couple of minutes, before starting up his truck again and
heading back out out on the Mex 1.



One thing you come to realise pretty soon, when hitching rides with the
Mexican truckers, is that a lot of them depend on some sort of amphetamine
drug to keep them awake on their long and hazardous journies.

We had seen the truckers dissolve pills into their big cups of black
coffee in the past but it was the first time we had witnessed a driver using
crystal.

Lou likes to blast his music at ear piercing volume as he blasts down the
Mex 1 highway. He played some great music. Along the way, the truck bumped
and rolled to the cool sounds of Boys don't Cry (The Cure),Rock Lobster
(B52's), Sweet Child 'o' Mine (Guns 'n' Roses, which is an awesome
soundtrack to be driving through the desert with) and a lot of other cool
songs screamed our climb and descent through the vast desert hills, on our
journey to San Ignacio. We also played Psychic Cat. . .



After stopping to do some more crystal and check his tyres, Lou turned
the music up a little more and we were on our way again. . . .

Weaving our way through the giant boulder covered hills, with the
mountains in the distance, we drove into the twilight and very soon, through
to the dark. The sun sets fast here and night takes hold almost in the blink
of an eye.

The Mex highway 1 is extremely narrow, therefore driving at night is very
tricky. There are huge cows in some areas, that wander the desert in a
drunken daze and we see them sometimes, kicking out from the side of the
road. They're afraid of the trucks and the trucks are equally disdainful of
them!

As we drove at break neck speed into the night, the road bacame harder to
define and our driver, Lou, began to make the sign of the cross from his
head to his shoulders when approaching various curvas peligrosas (dangerous
curves). He would also make a short and rapid whistling sound through his
clenched teeth which we soon understood to be a sign that some remarkable
feat of truck driving was going to be required imminently.



The numerous road signs which warned that there was to be no overtaking
on this stretch of the highway, were either invisible or meaningless to Lou
and we were reminded yet again that you need balls of steel to be a Mexican
truck driver.

Lou had protection though, he would make the sign of the cross, start his
nervous whistling sound and we would hold our breath (and sometimes close
our eyes) as he pulled out past a fellow trucker or trailer, to over take
them and go screaming past, up the hill or round the bend in the black
night.

Probably the most exhilerating and skin crawling kind of anxiety you will
encounter whilst riding in a Mexican truck, is when you are at the bottom of
a very steep hill and up ahead the grimacing lights of another truck are
racing towards you from the top of that hill. It is at this time that, no
matter what your religious beliefs are, you may just want to make the sign
of the cross yourself, or at least hope that the god watching over your
driver friend, also takes a little divine pity on your sorry soul too!



I think that we earned our balls of steel that night with Lou but I had
the distinct feeling that ours were caught somewhere between our stomachs
and our throats for most of the journey. . .

Cataviña - magic desert

After waving goodbye to Rojo and Dina and watching them drive North onthe Mex 1 highway, we made our hitching sign for our next stop, Cataviña.

Cataviña is magical.

As you approach the tiny town, a couple of hours South of San Qunitin on Mex 1, the whole desert changes, seemingly in the blink of an eye. Giant red boulders and a vast array of cactus, live all over this area, mysterious and beautiful, this place for us, is the heart of Baja.

After about forty minutes of standing on the road side,waving our sign for Cataviña and hoping a ride would come soon, a sweet gentle guy called Pete stopped and cordially invited us to hop in. Pete is a farmer, traveller and geologist from Montana. Our drive to Cataviña was peaceful and pleasant, we enjoyed Pete's knowledge and musings over the variuous cactus growing in the wonderful desert that embraces Cataviña.

We arrived at Cataviña, where we pícked up some food at one of the little stores. We bought advocadoes, bananas, refried beans, a tin of tuna and some potatoes, some butter, some tomatoes and some beer and cigarettes and tinfoil for baking the potatoes and bananas and some much needed water. Pete very graciously waited for us and took us back 2km to the mouth ofthe arroyo (dried river) which was where we had our hearts set on camping for a night or two.

We had visited Cataviña on our last trip to Baja and were immediately enchanted by its beauty.We had found the arroyo kind of by mistake one day, when we had intended to go and see some cave paintings, made by the Cochimis people whom once inhabited Baja. We had gotten lost and wandered deep into the arroyo, a seemingly endless trail into gigantic boulder hills which tower over you on each side of the valley. We hadn't realised at the time that the painted cave was actually quite close to the highway and up a hill, rather than into the arroyo ( though I am quite sure that there lie more Cochimis paintings undiscovered in this area). Our time in the arroyo had been magical, hence our desire to sleep in its lap for a night or two, as we hadn' t yet spent the night in the desert.



A few people had told us that it was a bad idea to camp in Cataviña beacause of banditos (criminals that come and do bad things to folks who stray from the tourist trail) in the area. They no doubt exist in the Baja, as they do in London, Paris and every other place we have ever been to, except there seem to be more banditos in the big cities of the world. We hadbeen told very gruesome stories of travellers being killed and robbed by the banditos and later, we were told that the Mexican Army had staked out in the desert, beneath the guise of a tourist tourist camper home. The banditos had come calling, only to be greeted by a thousand rounds of gun fire from the army. No more banditos no more baby! Who knows how true or accurate any of the stories we hear on our travels are, often passed by a thosand lips or more before they reach us, no doubt a pinch of romance or horror to spice up the punch of the tale is added somewhere along the way and that's part of the fun of stories I guess.

We decided to chance it and go with our dream of sleeping in the desert rather than let the fear enducing stories that we had heard, force us into a camping park for the night, that would have felt a bit like swimming in a swimming pool and looking out at the beautiful, vast ocean.

Before we set up camp, we wanted to go see the cave paintings that had eluded us on our last visit....The paintings live up on top of a small hill made of boulders, inside a small jaw like cave. The Cochimis lived all over Baja but were forced to hide the meanings and rituals of their legacy, from the Spanish Invaders whom eventually massacred them or converted them to Christianity, so much of the meanings behind the paintings is lost to the sands of time. In the mouth of the burning arroyo though, it is very easy to dream, awake of these simple, mystical people and their spirits seem to reside in every part of this place. There is something else here too.



The stars....With the sun descending, we walked a km or so into the mouth of the arroyo and put up our tent. As the twilight gave way to the dark, dark blue desert night sky, abillion, milion starts came out to play. There are no street lights in Cataviña, so the cold and beautiful stars shine in all their magical desert glory. Many questions enter our minds when faced with the spectacular sight of the universe all around us. At once overcome by the beauty as it shimmers and twinkles and transformsour eyes, we wonder what it is, what we are , why we are, if any reason at all. Will we ever know what this universe is all about. Does it matter? So many questions and so little time in which to find even one answer, so I'll leave it to the theologians to work it out between themselves while I crack on with our story. . .

We built a camp fire from various bits of drift wood and dead cactus and palm which was scattered all over the area. For dinner we baked the potatoes in foil on the hot coals of the fire and ate them with tuna and refried beans, we also mashed up the avocadoes and tomatoes and had guacamole and nachos. The food was most welcome and there is a real basic satisfaction in cooking over a camp fire. We have no pots or pans due to the weight of our other bits and pieces, we have two tin cups which are great for herb tea or making guacamole in and of course foil is good for cooking also. We begin to feel the sandy, dusty fingers of the desert entering our pores, our hair, our clothes and tent and we don't mind one bit, it feels good.



Cataviña, with its stunning beautiful desert and magical arroyo is a place that we are happy grateful to meet again and we are humbly grateful to the majestic arroyo which kept us safe and sheltered for the night, undisturbed by human, animal or bandito. I couldn't help feeling that if we had poked our heads outside of the tent at some bewitched hour of the night, we may, just for a second, have seen the guardian, sacred spirits ofthe Cochimis people standing on the giant boulders, looking down at us, knowing who we were, where we were going and a whole lot of other stuff that we have yet to discover for ourselves.

The Journey Begins

.

We have landed! The first part of our journey was spent wandering around Los Angeles,picking up all the stuff we need
to take on our trip.

We stayed in a little hostel called the Banana Bungalow on Melrose Avenue.

A big shout out to the cool and ultra friendly kids who came up to us and chatted on the L.A. Metro buses. Makes the trip
sweeter when you share a little love : )

L.A. is a scream.A wide open mouth with bleached white fangs and neon lipstick but we love it all the same!

Feb 26th Ensenada

We took the Greyhound bus to Tijuana Central Bus Station, where we hopped on to an ABC bus to Ensenada, a cool little city surrounded by lights in the rolling hills and full of life and activity. We spent the night in our groovy little tent, in a campsite which is located right next to a discotheque so we slept to the thumping and grinding beats of the local mayhem. Cool.

Feb 27th San Quintin Rojo and Dina pick us up!

The early morning of Ensenada saw us packing up our gear and heading out to the local Pemex (gas station)to hitchike our way to the town of San Quintin, a few hours south of Ensenada.
We were accosted by a rather drunk but friendly Fernando who kindly advised us that we were never gonna get picked up from this gas station and we would be better off taking a bus to the small town of Zorillo and hitching from there.
He was right. We took the local bus and jumped off at the sweet little town of Zorillo, we made our sign for San Quintin with a piece of card we found on the street.

About half an hour later, two cool kids pull over and tell us to jump in the back of their van.

We get talking and they introduce themselves as Rojo and Dina, they tell us they're headed to San Quintin to see Rojo's dad Bill and invite us to go along and spend a day or two hanging out with them on the beach.

Well, we knew then that our journey had truly begun....

Something you gotta realize about travelling our way, is that
it's all about the kindness of strangers and the beauty of souls who know that really there are no strangers, only friends you haven't met yet. The truth so often eludes us in these insecure and fearful times but I guarantee that the journey only begins when someone pulls over and asks you to jump aboard.

So, we get to the beautiful Playa De Oro (Beach of Gold), where Rojo's dad, Bill cordially invites us in to his home for a few cold beers and some really amazing insightful conversation. . . .

Stories from the Beach of Gold (playa de Oro)

Rojo's dad, Bill, is one hell of a guy.



You get a feeling when you´re in the company of someone like Bill, a really good feeling, hard to explain but you can just sit and bathe in the sunshine of their light and listen to the endless stories and enjoy the lessons within them. As soon as we arrived, the beers were unveiled and the stories began.

Bill told us all about his time in London in the 1960's. He was flatbroke had somehow worked out that he could use his American cents in the slot machines in London ! Well, he got to thinking that if he started playing the slot machines (or one armed bandits, as my nan calls them !) in the vast multitude of pubs and bars in the city, he could make a tidy profit. The English penny was worth seven U.S. cents in those days, so every time he won, he was making a killing! He survived for about two weeks in London, going from bar to bar, playing the slots until he won and then moving on to the next. His story ended with him sitting in one of the pubs after having won o their slot machine, sipping down a beer or two, when all of a sudden, he hears some English bloke cussing and cursing about ´´ The bloody American cents that were spewing from the slot machine!´´ Needless to say, Bill didn't say a word while the locals and landlord scratched their heads about the mystery of the London slot machine that spewed forth American cents rather than English pennies! Bill reckons that the best way to get to know a city, is to be broke there. That way you have no opportunity to avoid the gritty reality of that particular area, you have to learn the bus routes and find where the cheaper (which usually means friendlier in our experience) food and drink dives are located. It also means you have to sometimes have faith in the openhand of those in the know. Hopefully you find some slot machines and don't stay broke too long though : )



We slept in a little building in the garden, it's not finished yet but every time Rojo goes to visit his dad, they work together on the house and man do they work fast! In the four or five days we stayed with them, a flight of stairs and a new room frame were added to the existing work in progress. Bill is a mason and has taught his son, Rojo (also named Bill), the importance and intricacies of good building technique. There is an honesty and understanding in their building work that ensures that everything that they put their hands and minds to, will work out just fine and stay that way too.The day starts with sunrise and a simple breakfast of fruit and cereal orgrits (an American cornmeal porridge) and eggs with coffee (I´m allergic to coffee though, so we drank herb tea).



Everyone will tell a couple of stories about the places they've been to or some crazy but beautiful guy or girl they know and then the work starts.I played my guitar whilst everyone else worked and my contribution to the pack was of the dish washing sort, best leave me out of any kind of building work, lest you want an igloo for your home!Rojo's friend, Dina worked hard though, she's a fire ball of energy and light and a girl who knows how to work hard, love hard and party hard forsure, when the work ended each day, she woud be smiling like a pretty,Cheshire cat and ready for the Happy Hour at the local bar.



The little bar is a few minutes walk from Bill's place and is a hive of activity for the tiny beach community. Everyone refers to Happy Hour as just 'Happy'. They´ll say things like, '' we're goin´ over to Happy", "We´ll see you at Happy´´, or "Oh God! We´ve missed Happy!"Happy hour occurs twice each day, from 5 o´clock 'til 6 o'clock and from 8 o´clock 'til 6 o'clock. There is often live music at the bar, which consists of a Mexican keyboardist and a Mexican sweet voiced singer. They play cover versions of tacky Western pop tunes (with Mexican lyrics) and also some Mexican favourites. The drinks are super cheap at Happy Hour, $1 a beer and we usually bumped into someone we knew from Playa De Oro.


(carl and Richard in bar)

After ´´Happy¨´, we would go back to Bill´s place for more stories and beer. ´Sometimes Bill´s neighbours, Denise and Skippy, or Carl would drop infor a beer and smokes and to share some laughter.Denise and Skippy are cool. We would drop in to their trailer for a while and Skippy would make us laugh with his huge zest for life and outrageous stories of his days as a part time stripper in Wyoming! They live a good outdoor life and love Rock 'n' Roll just like Bill and Rojo and infact all of our friends in Playa De Oro.The common pastime there, is listening to music on Instant Radio (Satelite Radio) and they like their music loud.Denise and Skippy love all kinds of music but when we were at their place, they would be playing all the cool stuff from the 70's, Neil Young and ELO. Skippy would crank up the volume a notch or two every now and then, just until the music was as much a part of the trailer as the little pictures that hang on the walls, or the shell trinkets that Denise and Skippy have hand crafted and placed around, until the music was embracing the whole vibe and you could just listen to it and just when you think that the volume is all the way up. . . Skippy cranks it up another notch or two for good measure!


(Skippy)

Carl is another of Bill's friends, a stone mason and hunter from Wyoming and a rare diamond for sure.He's so cool with his long hair and painfully sweet eyes. Carl was once in a rock 'n' roll band called Good puppy and his stories about that time had us rolling over man.Getting arrested at their own gig and shit, Carl is rock 'n' roll. He loses the thread of his stories from time to time and they'll be lost in the ether but when he finishes one, you can guarantee you'll be grinning from ear to ear man.

Story telling is a big part of any journey, listening to stories and finding a few of your own, it's the way we get to know one another, to find out about each of our thoughts and experieces in this world.

Sometimes they're good just to make someone laugh and other times, like when you're talking with Bill, they're more than that, they can teach you something you need to be reminded of, about the awe that we all share at the mystery that is life.We recorded a couple of new song ideas for the next record on our little mini disc in the little building we slept in,.


I have christened my new little guitar, El Niño.

On our last day at Playa De Oro, Rojo took us fr a drive in Bill's clapped out old blue pick up truck, along the beach.We chased the sunset and skipped the waves in that old thing and although it had no brakes, we felt perfectly safe in Rojo's capable hands. (a little bit like Further in Electric Kool Aid Acid Test) There is so much I could write about Rojo, he is one of the most adventurous souls you could wish to meet. Rojo embraces life with a knowing smile and rides its turbulent waves with a natural, raucous grace. Bill has passed on his gift for story telling to his son and it is fascinating and intriguing to hear of all his crazy pursuits, Indiana Jones, free and stoned is our Rojo,very cool.Within minutes of picking us up on the Mex 1, he had invited us to accompany he and his freind, Dina, to visit his dad, Bill and now when we look back on that warm sunny day, it seems perfectly natural, perfectly beautiful, that we should have met with Rojo and his dad, Bill, Dina and the warm and inspiring characters at Playa de Oro.



Gracias Amigo´s Bill, Rojo, Dina, Skippy, Denise, Carl, Mike and everyone else who made the journey begin......