Pumping waves in Pasquales

     We finally gave up on Sayulita and decided to head south to find better waves. The drive to Pasqaules took us through the sparsely populated rolling tropical hillsides of Jalisco. The road through those hills is treacherous, especially after the record setting rains this year has produced. Jalisco is most comparable to Kentucky, or any other part of the deep Appalachian region for that matter, except with more kamikaze iguanas that jet across the road at no predictable interval. Call me inhumane, but when driving at high speeds I don’t swerve for small rodents or other pests who pose no threat to damaging the van. I’ve seen first hand the potentially fatal results of trying to dodge a cute fuzzy little bunny; the result is often times neither cute for fuzzy. With that said, I regret to inform the readers of this blog that there’s an iguana pancake frying on the pavement somewhere in the Jalisco hills, may he rest in peace.
     The mystery rash/hives started to flare up again, engulfing my arms and legs. The situation was only worsened when my blood pressure rose after we found ourselves more than thirty minutes off course driving the wrong way thanks to poorly marked road signs. We finally pulled into Pasquales near the end of the day. For the first time on the trip I was thinking to myself about how nice it would be to be at home, in the air conditioning, where I could ride out the nasty allergic reaction. I took two more of the prescription grade antihistamines and called it a night while trying to think positively about my current state of health. The next morning we were up with the sun and the allergic reaction had subsided.

      We hit the waves first thing. Pasqaules lived up to the rumors. It is a HEAVY, hollow beach break that produces world class barreling waves. Even with no significant swell in the water this unique beach break was turning out six to ten foot faces. AJ and I both got amazing barrels that morning which helped to alleviate the frustration of having traveled nearly 2000 miles without any solid waves to show for it.
      We’ve been in Pasqaules for five days now staying at Edgar’s Surf Hotel. Its 30 pesos per night (about $2.50 USD) to camp in the van in his secure beachfront parking lot with hammocks, a shower, some tables and plenty of shade. We’re the only Americans here; it’s mostly Australians and some Venezuelans at the moment. The Australians are a funny bunch, they never cease to impress me with their wealth of dirty words and expressions which have kept AJ and I cracking up the entire time.
The daily routine in Pasquales is pretty sweet. You wake up at dawn and surf for three to five hours until the wind turns onshore and then you come in for breakfast. From there most people read or take siestas until the late afternoon when the wind backs off enough to go out for another surf. From there its happy hour followed by dinner. We’ve been cooking for ourselves exclusively to save money, and with the low price of the abundant local seafood it’s been no chore at all. Last night we had some garlic and butter sautéed local whitefish, which was about $2 USD per kilo.
     The photo posted here was taken on one of the smaller days when I conjured up enough will power to get out of the water and take some photos, which is really hard to do when the waves are good. We should be here another few days until we continue our journey southward.

Hard Times In Sayulita

        I visited Sayulita this summer with my good friend Zac and had an excellent time. The waves pumped the whole time we were there, as did the nightlife. Upon returning this time, Andrew and I found a completely different Sayulita. Apparently this year Mexico had some of the worst rains in over two decades. The bridge to this once bustling tourist town was washed out reeking havoc on their fragile coastal economy at a time when things were already slow enough. We parked the car near the bridge once we found it to be impassible and walked to the beach to find an endless sea of plastic, trash and dismembered trees, all of which had been deposited there by the swollen river which was a mere trickle during the summertime when I last visited.
        The melancholy mood of the town was evident by the low hung heads of the inhabitants and local business owners. The Sayulita I had known had lost some of its lustrous glow that was partially the basis for my desire to return to this majestic slice of the Mexican Riviera. Ivan, a local street taco vendor, was still in business on the same corner where we had met this summer. We bonded then over the similarities of our names and, to my surprise, he remembered me as if it was just yesterday I had last indulged on his delicious tacos topped with a slice of pineapple that he so lackadaisically eviscerates and catches while falling through the air from the top of the wood fired spit where the sweet local fruit drips its succulent juices over the slowly turning meat. The combination of the chile-garlic encrusted roast with the sweet slice of pineapple would leave even the best of food critics speechless, so I won’t bother to try either.
           I inquired about his business, aware that it might be a point of contention as he was positioned on the wrong side of the inoperable bridge. He sighed and said it had been bad for business especially because September is one of the slowest months to begin with. I asked how and when the bridge was to be fixed which gave me a little window into the intricacies of municipal politics in Mexico. According to Ivan, the mayor of the town claims that there is not enough money to repair the bridge until the New Year. Typical of small business owners in the area, Ivan complained profusely about where his taxes had ended up, if allegedly, there was no money for the needed repair. This unfortunate fact incited a high degree of animosity from the local business towards the municipal government, as there really is only one bridge into the town. Hopefully, for Ivan’s sake, the reputability of his one of-a kind pineapple tacos will make the perilous foot passage over the remains of the dilapidated bridge worthwhile for the remains of his now dwindling clientele.

           We woke the next morning to find sub-par waves, which was upsetting considering the thirty or so hours we had spent in the car expecting gold at the end of the proverbial rainbow. Fortunately, we met a local surfer, Eddy, who took a liking to the two of us and allowed us to stay at his apartment since he was living at his girlfriends place and couldn’t break his lease. The place was a basic flat with minimal amenities and reeked heavily of mold; a likely product of the incessant rains. Nevertheless it was free, and with the windows open and the fan blowing we were confident that our health wouldn’t be an issue. The people in Eddy’s neighborhood live simply, with little excess. At a glance a middle-class American might call it poverty, but the children seem happy, and in general, so do the adults. We made a point to introduce ourselves to the people in the neighborhood, as it was painfully obvious that we were outsiders. They cordially received our attempts to converse in Spanish and seemed welcoming to us.
           After surfing the next day I felt a bug bite on my right shoulder while driving back to Sayulita. I asked AJ what it looked like and he said something to the effect of “ Oh man, not so good.” We gave it some time and pretty soon I was breaking out in hives all over my side, arms, buttocks and thighs. I didn’t hurt but it looked really bad. AJ, being an EMT thought it would be best to seek out medical attention so we drove to a 24- hour medical clinic in Bucerias. The doctor there asked me a million questions in Spanish and I responded the best I knew how while consulting my pocket dictionary. He concluded that yes, I was having an allergic reaction to something and I needed a antihistamine injection to treat the hives. As he spoke I cringed when he mentioned an "introcular" injection. I asked, “ Es injection en mi culo?” meaning it’s an injection in my butt? He laughed and said “no, es intramuscular, pero si es introcular tambien.” This meant that he initially said it was an intramuscular, not introcular injection, but yes, it was going in my butt. AJ watched as they stuck me with the two-inch needle. I took it like a man, but in all honesty, that stuff stings like none other going in. Regardless, by the morning the hives had subsided considerably and we were on our way south to Boca de Pasquales to hopefully find better surf conditions.

The Border

After a 600-mile day driving from Santa Barbara to the quaint town of Ajo Arizona, Andrew and I were shot to say the least. The trip was mostly seamless until we were delayed on a small rural highway in southern Arizona after two trucks had flipped over due to a hailstorm. This picture was taken as we prepared a roadside dinner of Spaghetti and red sauce waiting for the highway to reopen. As night settled in we were able to continue on into the desolate cactus laden landscape of southern Arizona.

            With The Doors blasting on the stereo we continued through the night with the windows down as the radiant glow of the approaching full moon highlighted the tumbleweeds violently racing across the highway in the high wind. The experience was surreal, at times generating that inexplicable whole body tingling sensation you get when you know that what you are experiencing will likely never occur again; a once in a lifetime experience so to speak.

             As we pulled into Ajo around midnight we were greeted by the local sheriff who pulled us over to tell us our license plate light was out. He suspiciously gave or windowless cargo van the once over, and rightfully so as this area is notorious for human and drug trafficking for which our vehicle would be a prime candidate. He asked us about our intentions and our destination, and when we told him his eyes briefly lit up as if he was internally thinking “ man that sounds like fun.” Being no more than a few years older than us it was understandable considering we were embarking on an epic journey searching for uncharted Mexican surf breaks while he was stuck in Ajo looking for undocumented Mexicans. Before we left I asked him if he thought the Mexican authorities would use the license plate light as fodder for exacting a bribe. He said, “ No, they’re probably more concerned about having their heads cut off by the cartels.” And with that he wished us luck and sent us on our way without a ticket for the minor infraction.

            We woke before the sun rose and drove the remaining few miles to Lukeville Arizona, home of the Sonoita border crossing station and not much else. The U.S. customs officials asked us about our intentions and then decided to search us as we departed from our country, probably because they were bored and there was no one else at the borer that morning. He asked us “ Why does your van look like a transport vehicle.” I had to work hard to suppress the myriad of smart-ass responses stirring in my head to the blatantly oxymoronic question I had just been asked by a guy who looked like he still would pick on nerdy kids if given the chance. “ A transport vehicle, sir, I’m not sure what you mean?” I replied. Sensing my cool and collected demeanor which was an obvious front for the smug responses I felt like giving he quickly replied, “ You know, the metal partition, the window cages and external door locks.” I replied, “ Oh, those are all just extra measures to ensure our security en Mexico sir, we just don’t want to get ripped off.” Given that his job was fundamentally based on security of sorts he backed off with the questions and sent us on our way.

            The officials on the Mexican side of the border weren’t interested in our intentions at all and sent us through after informing us that we would need to stop in 25 kilometers at the next stop to get our Visas and register the vehicle. Before we made it there we were flagged down by a group of men who had constructed a roadblock. Their lack of official markings or badges made them look more like a local vigilante group than anything else. As they approached the car we looked at each other and simultaneously wondered what the heck we were doing in this godforsaken Mexican desert. The man who approached asked some questions while the others looked on. Then an old man with impeccably white dentures approached and began to ask us in English some generic questions as though he had just been listening to the exact phrases on English lesson tapes. “ How old are you,” he said. We replied in Spanish as to prove our legitimacy in their county. He continued, “ My boss doesn’t believe that I speak English, tell him that I do speak English.”  We smiled and nodded and did as we were told quickly telling the boss that the old man who was a member of whatever agency all these possible banditos worked for spoke perfect English. They all laughed and set us on our way without a bribe or any other type of consideration.

            We made it to the second border stop just as the desert air was starting to swell with unbearable heat, the type of mirage generating heat that you can see radiating up from the poorly paved black highway. As we entered the Visa office we found the middle aged Immigration official sitting at his desk in the air conditioning along with half a dozen or so other fellows who we concluded must have been his buddies. It took them all a second or two to acknowledge our presence and divert their eyes from the Mexican game show they were glued to. He greeted us quite informally with a “ que paso guerros?” which translated literally means “what’s up white boys.” We responded and began to fill out the necessary paper work. While doing so we chatted about our trip as he inquired. He told us, in Spanish, to be careful of the homosexuals and transvestites in some cities. In all actuality he was quite a bit more graphic and found our dumbfounded blank stares to be a source of hysterical amusement, as did all his buddies hanging out in the office. As they laughed like hyenas he stamped our visas without checking to verify the information on our passports. I stupidly asked if we needed anything else to be on our way, he replied “ Si,un propina por cervesas” We left him a five spot and got on with our long day of driving.

            We drove another 600 miles that day and found a reasonable hotel in the town of Los Mochis just as the sun set. Our first day on the road in Mexico had proven to be eventful to say the least. Passing through a landscape that begins as a parched barren desert in the north and gradually warms with hints of the tropical interior to come made us content on our decision to brave this violence ridden country in search of warm, uncrowned waves further to the south. Hopefully the events come will still justify the trip, only time will tell.

           

The Van- Part II

        After making the 300 mile trek last night from Santa Cruz to Santa Barbara I'm reasonably convinced that the Econoline is cut out for the journey. It pulls eighty m.p.h on the freeway with no problems and has enough stereo wattage to drown out the incessent humming charecterstic of a cargo van without adeqaute sound deadening insulation.

        I hadn't seen AJ, my travel partner, in a few months since he's been working in Idaho all Summer. It's great to see him and his girlfriend Annick, they're both very close friends who seem to always make me laugh with their unsolicited antics. We're going to do some more prep work to today and finish packing the van so we can hit the road first thing tomorrow morning.

The Van-Part I

          Well its getting down to the wire now with only ten days before departure. I've bought myself a 2005 Ford Econoline Van, 5.6 liter V-8 Cargo Van to be exact. This pre-owned beast has just under one hundred thousand carefully driven highway miles according to the kind, honest and assuring used car salesman who sold it to me. I think a paid a little on the high side, but its exactly what I was looking for and with fresh tires, brake pads and rotors to sweeten the deal how could I have passed this one up?
           A funny little tidbit of information I so blatantly forgot to consider before buying the van is that it takes up to three weeks to receive the validated title from the CA DMV after the purchase of a used vehicle. Under normal circumstances this would be no inconvenience, however you need a copy of your title to enter Mexico. This unfortunate fact was going to invariably delay my departure. Upon sharing my dilemma with the used car guy he assured me that for an extra fifty bucks I would have the title in a week or less.... I'll have to see it to believe it.
           All in all its just what we need, stealthy and aerodynamic with a no frills approach to interior styling. I took it down to Watsonville today to have the windows tinted by some enterprising Latino guys who seemed to be running quite a profitable little tinting business, the phone was ringing of the hook the whole time. Jose, the owner, asked me how dark I wanted it, so I told him a little about my upcoming trip to see if he could chime in. Knowing that most states regulate window tinting I consulted him about how dark to go. He assured me that even if it was a problem down there its nothing a few greenbacks couldn't take care off. After some deliberation we decided on a 5% tint, which means it blocks out 95% of the light. I might have overdone it, its really dark, but hey, if all else fails I could start a Limo service, right?
            Here's a picture of the stripped out van ready for me to begin designing our home away from home for the next few months. This vacant 10'x6'x5' cubical sheet metal canvas will soon be transformed into our traveling chariot equipped with all the appurtenant makings of an epic surf adventure while simultaneously devoid of all excessive and frivolous possessions. Beauty and happiness often accompanies simplicity....this is our mantra.