January 26th, 2004

Monday,

With the hopes of reaching Ensenada, a good ninety kilometers away, we leave Tijuana. Going up a hill in the early-morning heat and traffic we realize that the pollution is heavier here than it was in the states. We stop at a red light and as I take a drink of water, Johanne faints and falls in a puddle of mud beside me. I think that she’s just fallen at first but her twitching tells another story. We take a break to re-evaluate the situation and decide to take it easy for the day, but absolutely get out of this pollution. We continue along the way coaxing Johanne’s hurting lungs. Ensenada turns out to be too far for us considering the circumstances, but no problem, we set up the tent in a valley, away from the road. When I head off to buy tortillas in the nearby town, I see wild horses running around in the fading light.

Ensenada afternoon gave us time to wait in a colossal line-up at the bank and enjoy a comida corrida (multiple course lunch) at a local restaurant. All the while we try to phone my cousin Arnoldo Junior but no answer is forthcoming. While waiting for him to come home and answer the phone we meet Victor Hugo who invites us to use his living room floor. We accept as my cousin seems to be out to sea and join Victor and his wife Damaris for a sandwich and conversation before bed. Victor Hugo did road Baha California some time in the past on the dirt and sand roads of the off road Baha Mil races. The next morning after a pancake breakfast and a hot shower he gives us a run-down of what the road is like all the way down the peninsula so that we are better informed.

The next night we are invited by a farmer to sleep in a vacant building on Rancho El Dado (The Die (as in dice) Ranch) and enjoy the sincere and honest company. In the morning he shows us the animals a bit and offers us oranges fresh from the tree. Once again we feel incredibly lucky to be able to voyage through this amazing landscape and meet such good people.

Around sunset we retrace our steps off an huge flat tableland where campsites would have been impossible to a nearby farm. The setting sun makes the red earth come alive. This time it’s called Rancho Ayala, and the ranchero lets us set up tent underneath the tin roof of an open garage. Dogs bark at us all night and we hardly sleep.

We make it to San Quintin and decide to stop to write an article. We spend two nights here holed up in our room. We don’t miss much though, the cities people seem to be generally apathetic, our feelings are to be confirmed by another cyclist two weeks later.

The landscape has changed quite drastically from the open grass meadows and eucalyptus stands of California. We ride through dry agricultural land and fields of cactuses. From time to time we see the deep blue ocean off to our right hand side. Motorists are also different, but continue to respect us. Many more people wave, honk, or whistle at us on their way by. We are often passed by pick up trucks full of passengers, and have noted a serious increase in the amount of men with moustaches and white cowboy hats.

The day we leave San Quintin is spent absorbing the traits of our new environment. We stop in a little town to eat Birria a sort of spicy meat stew served with tortillas. That night we coast down to the beach to camp with time enough to go for a walk in a rocky canyon filled with thousands of cactuses.