The reason the journey was the destination, or rather, the destination was the journey, was that neither Jords nor I had time or inclination to research said destination, so the plane tickets I bought landed us quite a distance from it.
We were headed for Baja California, and I bought a couple of plane tickets to Culiacan, which as it turns out is several hundred kilometres not to mention a gulf of water away from our destination: San Jose del Cabo.
Getting on the plane was enough of an epic. At 4.30am, we left my birthday:
aka the wig party. That's actually me on the left, Jords on the right.
I brought a little gift (plastic cup half-full of tequila) for our cabbie, Vicente. Too late, Jordan queried the prudence of such a decision. Forgetting he was taking us to the airport, I said, 'don't worry, by the time it hits we'll be long gone.'
But no, Vicente performed the task of delivering us to the airport outstandingly. We arrived two hours before takeoff. Unfortunately, I hadn't performed the task of naming destination quite so outstandingly, and we were at the wrong airport. By the time we worked this out (I'd forgotten to bring any flight details so we were going up to random airlines asking if they had our names) that time margin had shrunk by half an hour.
Unfortunately the other airport was an hour away.
Shit.
I called the airline from the next cab, and they told me we HAD to check in an hour before takeoff. Projected arrival was 40 minutes before takeoff. Our new cabbie went in to bat for us, driving along cajoling the airline man.
Then he announced 'trust in God', which could have applied to doubts about road safety, or doubts about air travel.
We made it. Next we knew, we were on the plane, asleep.
We got off the plane, caught a taxi to the bus station, then a bus to the next town, a taxi to the ferry stop, a ferry overnight to La Paz, and then another bus, and then a taxi, and then we were at our destination. The whole thing took a mere 30 hours.
From here we hired a car. It is almost a year since I've driven and oh my lord I'd forgotten how much I love it. I think in a past life, I must have been a truck driver. Or a people smuggler. Or something requiring lots of driving.
It was just like old times.
So, not surprising that we couldn't find out way out of San Jose del Cabo.. or that I got clocked for illegal right-hand overtake within ten minutes of getting behind the wheel.
The cop was very pleasant. I explained that I hadn't driven in a while, that we'd just arrived and that we were lost. None of this went far to dislodging his belief that - despite being stuck behind a massive slow-moving truck on a wide dirt road with no markings, I mean, let's face it .. who WOULDN"T overtake??? - some sort of penance should be paid.
How much? I ask.
500 pesos. He says.
That's $50. No way. I suggest that I'd been thinking more along the lines of 100 and he immediately capitulates and tells me not to pay him now. Well, I don't have time to drive around looking for subtle spots to pay a bribe, so I tell him forget subtle, it's now or never.
He then offers to rectify the third problem: we're lost and can't find out way out of town.
For the next 10 minutes, we enjoy a police escort out of San Jose del Cabo. Lights and everything, he's cutting through traffic, speeding.. really making sure no time is lost.
Then he pulls over, points us to the exit for open road, and tells us we're very beautiful.
And that, I am pleased to say, is a typical Latino cop.
Baja California is beautiful, rolling hills covered in shrubbery and cacti. We drove until we saw a little dirt road going off the highway, and ended up in a field of horses and goats, which spilled (via a ridge) onto the longest, most deserted beach you've ever seen.
We wondered why it was so deserted, until I tried to enter the water and discovered it'd be a good place to commit suicide, if your prefered manner of dying is by drowning.
Then we hit the road again, had an amazing lunch in Todos Santos, and drove to La Paz.
The diving was shit. Really really shit.
Nightlife too. Met some sleazy George Bush supporters who stalked us that night, travelling from their town to our town to eat at the only good restaurant, leaving us no option but to sweat it out in taco shop with no aircon.
It was wonderful, because we met a little kid called Diego (son of the owners) and Jordan practiced her Spanish on him. Really gorgeous kid, pics coming.
I had to bring forward my departure by a week, because of the looming doco that I should be doing right now (as I write). So that gave me two days to do the 16 hour train ride up the Copper Canyon. Amazing, beautiful.. one of the guards kept taking us to the off-limits back carriage to see waterfalls. He was obsessed by them.
Then, at 3pm, Jordan said 'hey Michelle, does Friday start with 'v' in Spanish?'
"Yes, yes it does. Why do you ask?"
"Because I just saw a newspaper and I think today is Friday, not Thursday."
Shit. That means my flight is tomorrow morning at 7am and I'm only halfway up the copper canyon. Can't change the flight because there are no flights on Sunday, and returning Monday would be professional suicide.
I stayed on the train. All the way to the end. Slept soundly in v shitty Chihuahua (just put in as many 'h's and 'u's with that word, and you should be right.
And here I am. Home.
1 comment:
Home???
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