Escaping to Baja

Our family is spending a few days in San Jose Del Cabo, between Christmas and the first few days in January, 2009. We land late afternoon on Sunday, December 28th. Escaping to Baja is relatively easy from Santa Cruz, California, and there is no jet lag to deal with. Growing up as a geologist's daughter provided me with many trips into Mexico and even though my Spanish is almost non existent, I always feel comfortable, welcome and happy to be in Mexico.

Although I have reserved a rental car in advance, renting the shiny red, sardine can, is stressful. I'm not 100% certain that our auto insurance back home will cover an accident, and I am confused and pressured to buy the extra Mexican insurance. Paperwork finally completed, Art navigates us out of the airport, anxious over the unfamiliar road signs, traffic, and rental car, muttering many 4 letter words that I won't document here. Our plan is to stay at a friends beach house in Zacatitis, but the directions to the house are vague. Several days earlier, Art searched for the house via google satalite and mapped out the route as best as possible. It is already after 5:00 P.M. and the sun is low on the horizon when we come to what we surmise is turn off towards the new Marina and ultimately the dirt road that will take us 9 miles to the house. There are several identical round-a-bouts leading to the marina and we take the first one; the wrong one. We circle back, and around again, drive a short distance to a second round about with a vertical row of directional signs, one of which points to Zacatitis. Initially, we choose the paved road up towards the mountains when we see two young women walking along the side of the road. Art stops to confirm directions and offers them a ride. Veronica and Stephanie pile into the back seat beside John and draw their version of a map on a piece of scratch paper, while Art courteously drives them back into town. Veronica is 19 and her English is much better than our Spanish. Stephanie is quiet and wide eyed, cautious of the gringos that she is hitching a ride with. We thank them and retrace the road, this time finding the coast road towards Zacatitis. As the sun dips lower on the horizon, my anxiety rises. I want to reach the house before dark so that we will be able to unlock doors and settle into the place before nightfall. We know that there may not be electricity or running water unless we can prime the pump and hook up the generator, a difficult task even during daylight. Initially the road is paved, but as expected, it soon turns to dirt. I keep my eye out for Buzzards Restaurant, a landmark we have been told to look for, just 4 miles before Zacatitis. We plan to return there for dinner after settling into our house. As the road worsens, John gets excited, sensing adventure, while Art and I fear a flat tire and being stranded. We wish for a 4 wheel drive vehicle to navigate the pot holes and washes. We seem to have rented a car with no reverse gear and we are alone on a remote coast road surrounded by cacti and sage brush, the ocean just beyond. The fading sun casts a sensual pink glow on the iridescent water and the setting sun paints the clouds a silver edged salmon. Under most circumstances this would be a magical transitional time of day. We come to a junction in the road and spot Buzzards Restaurant, but are dismayed when we see that it is closed; possibly up for sale? We have come too far to turn around, all the more difficult without a reverse gear, so we continue on the worsening road. Many potholes and another 30 minutes further on, we arrive at an enclave of homes, and spot the white archway, designated as the turn to "our" house. We recognize the house from photos we have seen and pull up the curved dirt driveway. John is out of the car in a flash, upstairs and into the house. Although I have keys, we find the house and the garage unlocked. The 360 degree view is breathtaking and the single upstairs room is divided into sleeping, sitting and kitchen area. A multitude of candelabras sit atop the cement kitchen counter and bar. Before heading out for the house we stopped to pick up jugs of water, a lighter and some cream for the mornings coffee. John lights the existing votive candles and I pull more from my suitcase and soon the room is awash with ambient light. A double futon will sufice for Arts and my bed, but there is no mattress for John. We explore the garage with flashlights and find a cot for John, but ultimately, John chooses the floor for his bed. We have our own sleeping bags and all would be adequate if we only had food and running water. Even if Buzzards were open tonight, it would be dangerous to navigate the return road in the dark, so it seems that we will be going to bed without dinner. John climbs up on the counter and finds a small can of vegetables and two rusted tins of smoked fish. Botchillism is not top on my list so the fish is out. I have brought along a large bag of almonds and three granola bars. In an effort to save the evening, I suggest a walk on the beach. John happily accompanies me and we head off with flashlights. Many of the near bye homes twinkle with lights and I vaguely hope to spot the shadow of a figure out and about. When we arrived, we saw people outside of an elegant home just below ours, but they have vanished, leaving on lights and windows and doors open. John and I drop down the steep sandy bank from the road to the beach. There is only a sliver of a moon tonight so even with our flashlights, we can't see a lot. We return shortly and I gaze out our upstairs window at lights on the near bye hillside, hopingfor signs of life, but I see none. John eats the remains of a sandwich he bought at the Phoenix airport while I nibble on almonds, washing them down with bottled water. By 7:30 P.M. we are prone, inside our sleeping bags trying to sleep at this early hour. Ordinarily, I am a good sleeper, but this is long night and I hear John and Art toss and turn frequently and wonder how uncomfortable John is, sleeping on the hard floor.