I invite you to come along for a particular 24-hour time period in Mark and my life, last week, in an area south of Todos Santos, on Baja’s west coast.
Mark, Maya, and I are driving north along the southwest coast of Baja California in Mexico. We’ve picked a free camping spot for the night at Jimi Beach, which we read about in iOverlander. Tomorrow morning, we will try to access a different place by a waterfall, which promises to be peaceful yet adventurous to reach. That’s why we opt for an early start and not push our luck today.
“I’m not sure camping at Playa Jimi is such a good idea,” I mention as our truck camper T&T (Temp & Thirsty) bridges the gap to our destination’s turnoff on the GPS.
“Why is that?” Mark asks.
“Well, you also read that people were robbed at gunpoint just south of there, two weeks ago. We want to be able to sleep at night and not worry about intruders.”
So far, we have never felt unsafe on the Baja peninsula, but it appears that the southern tip is more crowded, touristy, and potentially dangerous.
“I guess we can go to the waterfall spot instead. Better safe than sorry. It is getting late, though,” Mark says, as he focuses on the road ahead.
We usually aim to be settled by 5pm. It is 4pm and we have no idea what to expect. We change the waypoint on the GPS to the turnoff for this new location. Mark had scrutinized that area on satellite images ahead of time.
“I read the turnoff is very tricky, so look for it carefully. It is situated just past the second bridge,” he says. These “bridges” span arroyos (washes or dry river beds), which are often used as roads.
We slow down and pull over, off the main road. The turnoff is behind us, an extremely sharp bend that double-backs parallel to the highway. The only way to get there is by making a U-turn over four lanes. Luckily, this section of the pavement does not have a divider.
We wait until no cars are seen and make a quick loop on the asphalt to reach the dirt road, which leads to a barbed wire fence. I drag it open and close it again after Mark passes. That would keep the riffraff out, we both think.
“Well, that was the worst part,” Mark sighs.
We follow the dirt track and turn left. Based on Google Earth, this is a short and easy stretch to join the wide arroyo Mark had spotted. Except, now, years later, pointy bushes and plants with needles have grown and the access route is very narrow.
Not again, I think, remembering our hours of cutting and sawing trees and brush to reach a lovely pebble beach last month. All in an attempt to prevent scratching up our truck camper.
Mark grabs our handsaw, which now lives in the cab of the truck, and jumps out. “You drive, while I cut branches,” he instructs.
For the next forty minutes, he labors and sweats, while I inch our camper forward, trying to avoid the remainder of overhanging branches. There is no room to turn around and we have no idea how much further it is to a less narrow part of “road.”
The sun is setting fast. Eventually, we reach a wider stretch – we have arrived in the arroyo, where soft gravel and sand await us. Mark takes over the wheel and stops again after a few yards (meters).
“I’m going to take air out of the tires,” he says. When driving in soft sand, this approach is recommended. We don’t want to get stuck, especially in a remote area.
He takes a narrow-tip pen and tire gauge to deflate each tire to a certain pressure. We continue our route to the waterfall, trying to stay in the tracks of previous visitors. These tracks are all over the place and often squirrely. We sink in and slip a bit as Mark tries to keep a consistent, fast enough speed to not get stuck. We both hold our breath for twenty minutes, until we reach the end of the now shady wash. We spot three sows with their offspring of piglets. Nineteen of them. Nobody else is here.
The so-called waterfall is but a sprinkle running down a rock face; the air is cool since the sun has disappeared behind the walls of the canyon. It’s six ‘o clock already, so we make dinner, watch a show offline on Mark’s tablet, and listen to the water running down the rocks from our comfy bed.
***
It’s Sunday. We expect a local family might show up on a little outing to the falls. So far, it has been peaceful and quiet. After letting Maya out and spotting burros (donkeys), Mark prepares a breakfast of banana pancakes. This morning, we will attempt to find the source of the waterfall, above the cliffs.
“Do you think the three of us can climb up there?” my husband asks.
“I think you and I can, but it might be a struggle for Maya. Maybe there’s a trail to cross over the hill?” I reply.
When doing the dishes, I hear cow bells in the valley. A herd of cattle is crossing the wash, led by two farmers. Not much later, the sound comes from above us. There must be a path to get above the waterfall.
Dishes done and sunscreen applied, I pack a bag with water, Maya’s bowl, a snack, and biodegradable soap (we hope to find a bigger or stronger water supply to take a shower) and we set out to explore. Mark manages to climb the rock face. I carefully send our dog up, stretch by stretch. We attach her leash to make sure she doesn’t tumble down. All of us reach the top successfully.
An oasis opens up: a tiny stream that disappears and reappears from the sand, palm trees, more greenery. Mark spots a trail as well. We will try to return that way.
We follow the narrow valley and reach another small waterfall. This one has shower potential! The three of us manage to climb that one too, before reaching yet another level. At the end of this stretch, we find a third waterfall, surrounded on three sides by rocks and set in the shade.
This is as far as we can walk – there is no way to scale the vertical cliffs and find out what’s above. All we can see is dense lushness from a vantage point on a rock. We return to the middle falls, take in the beautiful surroundings, strip off our clothes, and shower underneath the tumbling water. Very refreshing! The warm sun dries our naked bodies. We are all alone in this little piece of paradise.
We retrace our steps downriver, take in a last glimpse of the tranquil scene, and follow a cow track over and down the hill. All we have to do is follow the piles of dung, and prevent Maya from eating any. The trail passes through a small slot canyon and brings us back to our home on wheels in the main arroyo.
I grab our chairs and we relax in the shade next to T&T. It’s almost lunch time. Cell service here is hit or miss. I take a few photos of our peaceful setting, but posting the gallery on Facebook doesn’t work. I type a text message to our friends Duwan and Greg, with whom we are loosely traveling. They are checking out a ranch to camp. We plan on staying next to the waterfall for one more night and maybe join them tomorrow.
Just before pressing “send,” Mark and I hear a car laboriously plowing through the soft sand of the arroyo. The engine is working hard. A small, white pick-up truck loaded with Mexican men approaches. At some point, I only hear their rumbling engine, as they disappear behind our camper and park close by.
Poooof.
“Was that one of their tires popping?” I ask Mark, who gets up and peeks his head around our camper on the sunny side. I hear him talk to the driver: “No bueno!”
That doesn’t sound good, so I rush out of my chair and observe the scene as well. Smoke is coming out of the truck’s engine compartment.
The four guys who were riding in the bed of the truck and one cab passenger jump out and run towards the bushes on the opposite side of the arroyo. Only the driver is still around. He stares at his vehicle and backs away. A small fire starts underneath the car.
“I’m moving the camper,” Mark states.
“Good idea!”
Mark gets in Thirsty and drives forward, on our own tracks, until he reaches a safe distance. Luckily, we are faced in the right direction. My tablet and Mark’s phone are left in our chairs, so I rapidly drag them away from the scene, until I reach our home. I urge Maya to join me. Her water bowl and our flip flops remain near the burning object. We’ll pick them up later.
I finally send that text to our friends with an extra note saying “And then this happened.” A photo of the Mad Max scene accompanies the message. I’ll have to add a couple more photos to that planned Facebook post later as well. Talk about a change of events and surroundings!
“I can’t believe they parked so close to us,” Mark states.
“This thing is going to explode!” I counter.
“The truck shouldn’t explode,’ Mark assures me. “Vehicles are made not to do that. Except in movies.”
I guess I should never believe what happens in movies.
From this distance, we stare in awe as the car goes up in flames. First, the white smoke turns grey and black. Then, it bellows up, obscuring the sky. Warning alarms go off. The fire spreads and grows. The tires pop one by one. Everything that isn’t metal melts or disintegrates. We take photos and movies, while the group of locals laughs and hollers from afar, phones at the ready.
“I’m moving the car further away,” Mark says, before the fire consumes the Mexican vehicle and reaches its gas tank.
I drag the chairs some more.
Then, I start making lunch inside. It’s difficult to concentrate with a spectacle like this just out the door. A louder bang follows. That must have been the gas tank.
“That scared Maya,” Mark says. “She’s hiding in the car now, on her bed. I opened the doors.”
Great! Maya doesn’t like fireworks, gun shots, or firecrackers. Or exploding cars, apparently.
I step outside to take another photo. That’s when the driver of the once functional car approaches me. He speaks one word in English: “Maybe…” The rest follows in Spanish. He wants us to drive the group of six to the nearest town, El Pescadero, which is at least ten miles north of our current location; two down the soft arroyo, the rest on the highway.
This is impossible. I try to explain in poor Spanish.
“The camper and truck are heavy already. We had to let air out of the tires. It’s hard enough for us to get here and leave. We don’t even know if we can make it back. And we don’t have room.”
He is persistent and it is obvious they don’t want to walk.
“Why don’t you call someone?” I inquire.
“Our phones were left in the car. Everything is gone, burned.”
I don’t believe him. The guys in the back would have had their phones on them – and we noticed some take photos. Mark even saw a man (try to) make a phone call. This conversation makes me uneasy.
“We don’t have a good cell connection and we are not able to make phone calls within Mexico,” I add, none of it a lie.
He insists: “You could drive us to town.”
“The only thing we can do is take one of you to the main road, in about an hour. We will eat lunch first,” I say – or try to say. Then, I leave him. I’m not sure what else to do.
Mark grabs the rest of our belongings and I finish cutting vegetables and warming up corn tortillas, my mind disturbed. We eat our meal outside.
“All we can do, really, is take one of them to the main road,” I repeat.
“It’s only two miles,” Mark says. “Why don’t they just walk? They can call a friend from the moment the phone service works better or hitch a ride from the moment they get to the highway.”
In rows of two, the six walk towards us, following the car tracks. Some of them carry sticks. As they get closer, I coax Maya out of the truck and make her sit between us, showing her off. Her presence might deter anyone from trying something unpleasant. I feel intimidated.
“Buenas tardes,” I chirp. Nobody returns my greeting. I hear someone huff and mumble “Too heavy.” The group passes the camper. Twelve feet shuffle through the wash. We watch until they turn a corner.
“Are they gone?” I ask. “All of them?”
“Yes,” confirms Mark. Our uneasiness settles down. We decide to not spend another night at this location. We feel vulnerable. The driver knows who we are, what we own, where we are parked, and that our phone doesn’t work.
“We can’t leave yet,” I say. “We need to make sure they have reached the road, before we drive out. I don’t want to pass them in the arroyo or the narrow stretch of bushes.”
“Let’s go in 45 minutes,” Mark suggests. “By then, the route should be clear. And, we have to put air in the tires as well, before we can drive on the highway.” It will take time to get out of here.
We clean up and walk to the skeleton of the white pick-up truck. It took exactly one hour for the vehicle to completely burn out. The windshield melted and everything made from plastic and cloth is gone: cushions, seat belts, steering wheel, floor mats. It’s fascinating! We also observe that there is no license plate.
The smell is appalling and the pretty, peaceful scene is (forever) littered. A small fire remains underneath. We observe the wreckage, before turning our backs towards the scene.
“I’m grabbing that plastic bottle near the falls,” I tell Mark in an attempt to leave the place cleaner than we found it. We often remove litter from free camping spots.
“Too bad we can’t remove that truck as well,” he says. “It might be here forever.”
Around 2:30pm, we pack up and leave the once pristine canyon. Mark does a fabulous job not getting stuck on the ride out, even when he stops the moment we see another pick-up truck approach. If there is one thing you need to do when driving in soft sand or gravel is keep moving!
He waves the other car over to let it pass. Nope. It stops. Two men jump out – one on each side. Huh? Did the other guys send their friends to rob us? Steal our camper?
My mind goes crazy.
“Well, we better keep driving,” I encourage Mark. There’s nothing else we can do. “Get ready to accelerate once we get closer!”
As we pass the truck, one guy takes its driver’s seat and the other jumps in the bed of the pick-up to add weight. Later, Mark sees him push the vehicle. Another 2WD car that has no business being here. I wonder if they are stuck…
We continue our “escape” through the wide part of the arroyo and the narrow alley surrounded by thorny bushes.
“Imagine that white truck stalling and burning out right here,” Mark says.
“That would have been disastrous,” I realize. Nobody would have been able to come or go…
Once closer to the paved road and gate, Mark gets off the track and starts our air compressor to fill the tires to their required pressure. Another fuse blows, just like the last time we did this. The small machine is getting too hot. We’ll finish the job at our next campsite, tomorrow morning.
I open and close the gate once more and soon we find ourselves on pavement. Big. Sigh. Of. Relief.
We drive to the rancho our friends found and stopped at. To our surprise, we see two sets of three men walking along the highway.
“Are these our guys?” I ask, stupidly. Of course, they are. Why didn’t they hitch a ride? Why did they not call for help? Why are they walking all the way to El Pescadero, many miles past our new destination? Seeing them, still walking, boggles our minds.
Mark, Maya, and I meet up with our friends Duwan and Greg (Make Like An Apeman) at a small farm with a cute rotan bathroom structure and attractive pool. Here, we can spend the night for 100 pesos ($5) per couple. For another 100 pesos, we can finally dump our sewage – a bargain in this part of the peninsula. Plus, this chore is becoming imperative after more than two weeks.
By the pool, drink in hand, we relay our exciting, quite unbelievable, and extremely random experience to our friends, supported by photos and video.
“Maybe that car was stolen. Or the group went for a joy ride,” Duwan suggests.
I guess we will never know. And maybe that’s for the best.
To read fascinating stories and anecdotes about a decade of our nomadic life, mostly aboard a 35ft sailboat in the tropics, check out my travel memoir Plunge – One Woman’s Pursuit of a Life Less Ordinary.
Leave a Reply to Janis @ RetirementallyChallenged.comCancel reply