Check the album

Just a heads up to an album of more photos, with a bunch from the past couple days here in Guadalajara. I´ll get some captions in there soon, too. Enjoy, and look out for a post after the Manu Chao concert tonight.

People Watching in GDL

Also abundant in Guadalajara are the book stores and libraries, symbolizing the intellectual climate in which these Tapatios live. This is a (slightly askew--sorry!) picture of the Biblioteca Libroamerica. Beautiful.

Scotty breakfasting at our favorite breakfast spot. Two full full breakfast plates with bottomless coffee and orange juice runs us about $5.50. As you can see, the great deal lets us really enjoy the food.

More breakfast.

One of the many sculptors that can be found in the largest plaza, Plaza Hidalgo. The city is very bohemian, with mimes, painters, sculptors, Brazilian drummers, and breakdancers among others.

Hello all,

Here we are in Guadalajara, capital of the Jalisco province and Mexico's second biggest city. It is a fantastic city, with much to do. So far we have spent most of our time in the historical center of the city, which seems to be where most of the action is during the day. This part of the city seems almost designed for foot traffic: centered around four large plazas, both locals and tourists alike can walk, talk, gaze at the amazing facades of some classic buildings, or eat all the while staying in the middle of all of the action. Sunday was superb, and everybody seemed to be out and about. We, too, spent most of the day walking along the avenues, eating, and watching the street performers. While all of the walking can be pretty exhausting, Scotty and I have been able to muster up the energy to go out and experience the nightlife each night (though, admittedly, last night we were rather unlucky, first stopping at the Cuba Libre bar where a crowd of about 5 percent maximum capacity was listening to cheezy Mexican love songs at full volume, and then moving on to the nearby Club YeYe, which turned out to be a prominent lesbian bar). Tonight, however, we will be attending the Manu Chau concert, which should be a blast and even another opportunity for me to look at the pretty girls of Guadalajara but not muster up the courage to talk to them.

Chivas v. Atlas (Guadalajara, Jalisco)

Last night we went to the Chivas versus Atlas game at the Estadio, Guadalajara. The game was sold out--all 80,000 seats were filled. This was kind of a last second thing on our part (we didn´t find out about the game until we were halfway to Guadalajara), so we had to snag some tickets of a scalper. With some Mexican friends acting as intermediaries, we got a fair deal at about $30 a ticket. Our tickets happened to be in the Chivas-fan section, probably the craziest part of the entire stadium. During the entire game the fans in our section were singing and chanting songs at the top of their lungs, only stopping to shout vulgar insults at the refs and opposing players. People threw toilet paper, smoke bombs, and signal flares at the field, trying to hit the opposing team´s goalie, at times almost succeeding. Stadium rule prohibits the sale of alcohol to people of our section (and they do check your ticket), but that didn´t slow down these fans one bit. Those on the upper deck were jumping up and down in such unison at one point that I could see the huge concrete tier and girders tremor with them. The thirteen year olds in front of us weren´t to be shown up, either, and they wasted no time in lighting up a cigarette or yelling things that might make an Irish dockworker wince. All in all, a very pleasurable experience.

AUTUMN IN THE TROPICS

In the photo above, the sun is setting directly above a large white rock sitting off the coast of the small town of San Blas, here in the state of Nayarit. It is said that the rock is sacred to the natives, for whom it is a landmark on their pilgrimage. While the region is known for the mysticism and spirituality of its ancient Huichol people, I am captivated as well by the deliciousness of the Huichol brand hot sauce that comes from here.

In recent news, the heat and bugs were oppressive last night. I was willing to give so much just for a light breeze, some rain maybe, but it only got worse. We eventually gave in, leaving the circle of people sitting around the coconut which was smoking away in a bucket, and driving into town in search of a more hospitable place to socialize. Tonight should not be as bad because a thunderstorm has rolled through (and we´ve been told a hurricane is coming up through Acapulco). We managed to get some surfing in while it was raining this afternoon, but I am only around 90% after a rough night of sweating, itching, and coughing. I have been fighting a bit of a flu bug, and it got the best of me between about 4 and 7 am, when I mainly tried to read more of Don Quixote while the sun slowly came up.

A night even worse than last night ended with this sunrise, as we got off the ferry from La Paz began our drive south to Mazatlan. Deprived access to our vehicle and unwilling to spend an additional 75 bucks on a private room, the tile floor and bright flourescent lights of the ¨Muster Station,¨ or meeting area, turned into the only place to lie down. On top of the distressing news I had heard earlier about my friend, we also had to deal with the sounds of the movie Hostel 2 playing nearby. Thankfully in the corner I found a pile of old broken seats, and was able to detach a cushion to use as a headrest.
In the morning, we were managed to remain undetected by a man whom I had talked to extensively while waiting to board the ferry. He was coming back to his farm on the mainland after working construction jobs in Baja during the off season. Tough work, he said, but a better alternative to his occupation-- a drug trafficker. With five children and a wife he loved and had been married to for half his life (since he was seventeen), he had made enough money to buy the land, but only before being sent to jail for some 26 months. His philosophy on life is one of equality for all people now, and he can´t even fathom being in the drug trade now, which is involved in the murder of so many innocent people. As the conversation turned from this to the complexities of maintaining a farm, he became interested enough in me to offer a shrimp breakfast with his brother, a fisherman from the city where we would be landing in the morning. Rodrigo, as he went by, was friendly and willing to talk about all kinds of interesting things, but the combination of sketchy past and haggard feeling in the morning was enough to want to get on the road. I uploaded the picture above because I was captivated by the large banner on the left: ¨LAS DROGAS NOS DESTRUYEN¨, or ¨THE DRUGS DESTROY US¨

Driving straight through the northern section of Sinaloa, we ended up in Mazatlan in time to get some tacos, hit up a little internet, sleep a little, and get back out to walk the malecon, or coastal road for the sunset. Hundreds of people had the same plan, and we got a great intro to the biggest city we had visited thus far.

The following day we managed to climb the hill where the lighthouse rests (the highest altitude for any lighthouse in the world, apparently) and caught this great view. Closer in to the right is the old town, with its bustling streets, plaza, and cathedral, while further up the beach is the Zona Dorada, AKA Golden Zone, AKA tourist heaven.

This little piece of street art outside or hotel in the old town was not quite as tourist friendly. The artist´s choice to switch the stars on the American flag for swastikas was particularly curious. The quote from Martin Luther King is a shortened down version of this one: ¨He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetrate it. He who accepts evil without protesting against it is really cooperating with it. ¨ This could be a sign that our journey on the mainland could lead us to somewhat more confrontation than our peaceful passage through Baja. Stay tuned to find out.

R.I.P. Bryan Frost

You might think that travelling down here in Mexico you really detach yourself from whats going on in the states, but thats really not the case. When you have to confront something as tragic as the murder of a friend, it can turn your entire perspective on travelling and the world in general upside down. It still doesn´t seem possible, but I found out just last night that a friend named Bryan Frost was stabbed to death while walking through LA this past Thursday. I didn´t know him that well, but after staying at his place a couple days over the summer, I could tell he was quite kind, generous, and very easy to get along with. The violence of it is most disturbing, and serves as an important message to those of you back home: you´ve got to keep all your wits about you, or you could easily find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Brian´s death was the second of two bad omens that have hit close to home recently. Thursday and Friday we were chilling out on the pacific coast of southern baja, camping at a little spot called Pescadero Surf Camp. Walking the board we rented out to the waves on Thursday afternoon, I was surprised to see a boy come running up to me as I reached the water. In a panic, he told me that a man was stuck out in the water, and turned pointing to the rocky area down the beach. I followed him, running at his pace until we arrived down the beach, where there were five or six people all yelling things at me, waving their arms, and pointing out to sea. For a brief moment, I saw the man stuggling to keep his head above water before a wave came crashing ontop of him, sending him even closer to the rocks. He was further out than I had dared to go with the surfboard all day, and seemed to have been sucked out by the riptide that was separating us. I wasn´t sure whether it was the pressure of the panicking people on the rocks bearing down on me, or a burst of courage, but I ran out into the water and started paddling through the waves. As the waves got larger and the water got deeper, whatever courage I had ran dry as I lost sight of the man and struggled to hold on to the surfboard in the crashing and choas of the whitewater. In all the confusion, I saw a man on the rocks just 30 or so feet away, sitting and vigorously putting on what looked like a pair of shoes or flippers. I yelled to him, asking if he could see the man, and telling him to take the board. He jumped into the water towards me, and soon he had the board and was off, leaving me struggling to fight the current. Thankfully I was only about shoulder deep at that point, and was able to swim and walk off to the side in order to get out of the riptide. I was met onshore by Joel and the Aussies with whom we were surfing and hanging out (more on them later), and after seeing that the two others had made it out of the riptide, comments abounded about my Hasselhoff-esque assist in saving this man´s life. Both this story and Brians go to show that no matter where you are you can find yourself in a life and death situation, and you cant put too much faith into your being able to make it out unscathed.

Candid shot of Scotty at El Marron Fishing Camp. On our way back to camp we stopped and chatted it up with a local fisherman Pancho Maclish. Pancho was 72 years old, but they were as hard a 72 years as you will come across. A lifetime of fishing and smoking cigarrettes had left his face dark and leathered, and a stomach condition that made ingestion very painful had turned his legs and arms to twigs. He lived by himself in a small house for weeks at a time with only his TV digest magazines to entertain him in the evening, even though his house had no electricity. On his right hand was a noticeable scar, a leftover from a stingray incident. Though we didnt him ask him about it, someone from neighboring Santa Rosalillita told us that Pancho was involved in an ongoing legal dispute with his brothers over the rights to his father's inheritance. His faint smile appeared throughout our conversation, and he laughed like a kid when we told him about the neighbor's dog marking its territory all over Scotty's tent.
Day shot from our campsite near the Bufadora. We thought long and hard about checking our beer consumption for the evening considering our proximity to such a precipitous ledge. We decided against it.
The Meling Ranch in San Pedro sat on very old property, with the house in the background being over one hundred years old. The pool looked so inviting that Scotty and I, moderately dirty from not showering for several days despite numerous hiking adventures, spent half of an hour trying to convince the employees who worked there. I must also admit that our best efforts to charm the two young women working there into letting us use the pool were not in vain, because after falling short with them we moved onto the father and owner of the ranch who finally permitted us a dip.
Scotty opining in front of the birch tree forest 4000 meters above sea level in San Pedro de Martir national park.

BAJA SUR

Here we are, Loreto, founded in 1697 and considered ¨Capital of the Californias¨ until it was destroyed by a hurricane in 1828. A very historic day to be in a place with such history, the picture above was taken on Mexico´s Independence Day, September the 16th. We arrived to clouds overhead, and only 15 minutes after checking into a cheap hotel, a deluge quickly flooded the streets. Soon after, we braved to muddy waters of the streets in search of cheap seafood, Loreto being a coastal city. In the picture, you can see just how treacherous these streets can be not only for drivers (the SUV on the right is getting doused by the passing truck), but for pedestrians, who can get drenched by cars going by. The old mission in the background is adjacent to the plaza area, which was decorated with the colors of red, white, and green from the fiesta the night before. There is still a great feeling of isolation, even in this somewhat developed city (it has only the third stoplight we have seen in Baja). Indeed, while the conquitador Cortez had taken control of all of central and southern Mexico within three years of his arrival in 1519, it was another century and a half before Loreto would be established.

Today, we are continuing south with the hopes of making it to La Paz or even Todos Santos further south, but we may inevitably settle for another night on the beach more closeby. Check back soon for another post before we hop the ferry from La Paz to the mainland.

Parque Nacional Sierra San Pedro Martir

After an hour or so hiking up a really rough road, Joel and I found some spare energy to scramble up the rocks to reach this peak at around 10,000 feet. Here we see Joel doing a little light reading atop a massive cliff, looking out over Cañon del Diablo, a dry lake bed, and the north end of the Sea of Cortez far off in the distance. It was in this unexpected forest wilderness that we would later receive unexpectedly awful directions on how to arrive at a lake. Misleading signs, unpassable road, suspicious forks, and unrewarded miles of hiking in the heat gave us great grief with the park ranger who suggested such the excursion. Nonetheless, the memory of this gorgeous vista was a highlight that could not easily be sullied.

Dune Jumping

The large dunes of San Antonio del Mar gave Joel and me a chance to let free some of the energy that can get built during long car. I chose to go for the Kung Fu kick, and as you can see my technique is nearing perfection. Joel, on the other hand, went for maximum amplitude, and could glide down to near the bottom of this dune, landing in the deep and forgiving sand.
In other aerial news, we reached a pool with a diving board, and Joel attempted to teach me a gainer, or running back flip. The first tries I succeeded in between a quarter and a half rotation, landing in a tucked position with my knees and head hitting the water at the same time. The second to last attempt I layed out nearly horizontal, landing with a smack on the small of my back. If back flops could hurt more than that, I did not want to know. On the next, and final attempt, however, I found out that they could, in fact, hurt significantly more, smacking the entirety of my back on the surface of the water with a ¨SLAP!¨ that would have woken many people sleeping nearby.

El Coyote

Scott in the midst of Cervantess Don Quixote at Requeson. Maybe, in the great scheme of things, we are on our own romantic journey and Panama is our windmill. We have got our fingers crossed that this giant will be slain, however.
Our camp spot at Playa Requeson, just south of El Coyote. Not bad for $3 bucks a day.
The road into El Coyote was precarious to say the least...But hey, on the bright side, it sorted out all the nancies and kept the beach solely for the dedicated. Scott maneuvered the Land Cruiser like a seasoned pro, however, and we were soon relaxing on the beach under the shade of a palapa.

Playa El Coyote is a real jewel. Located on the Cortez side of the Baja Peninsula south of the 28thparallel, its white-sand beaches, warm waters, and abundance of outdoor activities make it a legendary destination for Mexicans and foreigners. We sought it out because the Seattle-ite owner of our hotel in San Quintin tipped us off to it. I said "how much time should we spend there? Two or three days?" He leaned back into is reclining chair and gave his large belly a little breathing room, blew out a deep breath through pursed, flimsy lips spraying flecks of his bologna sandwich over the desk in front of him and responded, "Oh, two or three WEEKS." We were sold. Our camp was set up on the southern tip of the beach, somewhat distanced from the locals and their cars, which all seem to be equipped with a nice little feature that allows them to play Ranchero music at impressively high decibel levels. Fleeing the pesky flies in the morning, we stumbled across Berthas Restaurant, just up the road at Playa El Burro. A couple of ice-cold Dos Equis Lagers later (in Mexico, ice cold beer always sounds tasty, even at nine in the morning--something I’m accrediting to physiological and mental acclimation, a process that I am in no big rush to explain scientifically) and we had a snorkel set to play. While we were enjoying our beers, there was a little commotion outside. Just in front of the restaurant were a biracial team of overweight, old gringo expats and some younger, fitter Mexican dudes trying to un-beach an embayed sailboat. An English expat, our neighbor in the bar, was shirtless and looked as though he had a strong allergic reaction to dental offices, but he was also adept at telling us the story behind the sailboat. Apparently the boat, which didn’t look very seaworthy, had been bought by one of the expats now on the beach. It was purchased exactly in the position it was in when we first laid eyes on it, stranded on the beach. Despite its theoretical ownership, locals tired of the eyesore encouraged the local dive-master Mick, also from England, to take it out and sink it. Once it was at the bottom of the sea, it would create a man made reef in which to explore while diving. The Mexicans were now taking order from the gringos and began to try and push the sailboat of the beach while the gringos themselves plopped down on their rears in a motorboat and tried to tow the bow off simultaneously. I leaned over to Scott sitting next to me as the motorboat began waving back and forth at about 6000 rpms, "This is a futile effort if there ever was one." But just as I had finished my sentence, lo and behold a miracle occurred, and the beached sailboat began to drift out to sea. I had no hat on my head at the time, which was lucky because I was not very hungry.

We rented some kayaks just down the beach for five bucks an hour and set off to an island located maybe half a mile out into the bay. On the other side it was said there was a beautiful, vacant white sand beach. We paddled out there and chanced upon a French-Mexican tourist with the same game plan. He was an engineer in France for an aeronautical firm, but had grown up in Mexico but attended French style schools in Mexico City. Politics and culture were easy subjects to talk about for him, and he struck me as an optimist and had a positive outlook on US and Mexican politics, unusual, I thought, considering his French heritage. Some local expats rolled in on their inflatable dinghy, and told us that this island was called Isla Perros Muertos, or Dead Dog Island, because locals brought their dead dogs out here to bury them.

That night we brought some tequila over to our neighbors at Playa El Coyote. They were not too excited about cracking open our bottle of very budget liquor, but they were quite keen to talk to some Americans, especially ones so close to them in age. From Tijuana, there was Raul, 28, and his girlfriend Lucia, a very pretty girl also from northern Baja. Then there was Hussein, Mexican but of Jordanian descent. Marcos was a local from Santa Rosalia but had studied in Vancouver B.C., and by the time we showed up had already drank a sufficient amount of booze to perform a little dance in front of the fire for us. His style lie somewhere between the robot and swing dance, but it was pure entertainment. Raul grilled up some delicious fresh shrimp tacos for us, and told us about his time studying in Montana. White noise included a soothing mix of reggae, German techno, and Radiohead, and the scene by the fire soon put me in a very relaxed state. They told us about the night before, during which they had dropped LSD, which explained the blasting techno music that continued until 4 a.m. While we sat there listing to these young Mexicans, I began to smile. Travel is really all about the people, I thought. Lucia kissed me on the cheek like we were friends before I headed off to bed and told me it was nice to meet me. On a side note, this was the most contact I had had with a female in ages. Sorry Scotty, but there are some things in which even you can’t cut the mustard. The tequila had done its job, and I made it about half of a page into my book before I fell into a deep sleep.

Communication Frustration

Travelling in Mexico thus far, one of the main challenges we have faced is in communications with those back in the U.S. I wrote the following story yesterday to help elucidate how this can be a problem, and, sure enough, was delayed in posting it until today because of computer difficulties. It´s long for a blog posting, but I thought the details of the event were crucial in getting the message across. As a disclaimer, I have to warn you that it may be migraine inducing even to the reader.

It´s the 16th of September, Mexico´s Independence Day, and this seems to be the only internet cafe open here in the 300 year old city of Loreto. It is on the main drag, which is packed with small stores--all kinds of boutiques, bakeries, taquerias, farmacias--but has by far the smallest proportion of internet cafes out of any even modestly populated area. The internet is slow, but most things take considerably longer down here (with the most obvious exception being food service). A spontaneous desire to use the telephone seemed easy enough, given there was a public phone visible across the street, and I had seen a small grocery store next door that in most cases sell the cards necessary to call long distance on the phones. The first hurdle came early on, as the store was out of phone cards. Thankfully, the store owner was as helpful as most people are in Baja, and she didn´t take much nudging to get a potential other vendor out of her. The Pescador, a supermarket just a couple blocks down the street, would certainly sell me a card, she said. After a few block walk, during which it had begun to rain lightly, I found refuge in The Pescador somewhat reluctantly purchased a 100 peso ($10) card, which, though it would provide 20 solid minutes of phone time, seems like a lot when compared to Skype (which can be difficult to find). On the way back up the street to the phone across from the internet cafe, I found a different phone. Before I even took the card out of its plastic wrap, I noticed the ¨telephone unavailable¨ notice on the screen. Shrugging it off, I was mainly considering the various tales I would soon describe to my friends and family back in the states, back at the phone across from the internet cafe. I get there, and that phone simply does not have any words on the screen, an obvious sign of disfunction. Looking down the street in both directions, I don´t see another phone in sight, but I take off back in the direction of the Pescador and the central plaza area, certain I will find one rather soon. After passing the Pescador, I see the familiar yellow and red pattern of the phone enclosure box just a little further down the block. Upon approach, however, I see there is not actually a phone at all, and just the box, on its stand. At this point the rain picks up a little more, enough for me to stretch my bright green Mexico soccer jersey over my camera bag, hanging at my hip. A warm afternoon drizzle, nothing compared to the deluge that Joel and I were surprised by earlier in the day. As I reach a phone that works two blocks further down, I´m happy to stand in the rain and chat it up until my card runs out of time. Spirits are high, reinforced by the continuous yells of ¨Viva Mexico!¨ in my direction--Independence Day is a good time to be wearing a Mexico soccery jersey. As the screen shows five seconds of talk time left, I tell my parents that I will call them right back. As sure as I was that I would find a grocery store closer than El Pescador, I was wrong, and so the cashier happily sold me another $10 card. Thinking I could find another public phone back in the direction of the internet cafe, I ended up walking well past it, a total of 6 or 7 blocks, before I found not one, but two phones, directly across the street from one another. This could be my big break, I thought, as the rain gave way completely and I could feel the sun easing up, despite the increased humidity of the afternoon rain. The phone on my side of the street, upon entering the card, gave me the word ¨falla,¨ which I dont know, but I presumed to mean fault, because the card didn´t work. The phone across the street was also disfunctional, but gave me a ¨tarjeta rechazada,¨ which I know means ¨card something.¨ On my way back to return the card to El Pescador, I saw another phone down a side-street, and, sure enough, I got another message that I had to return my card. Upon arriving at El Pescador, I simply told the cashier that the card was not working, that it was worth nothing, that I had walked at least a kilometer and found three phones to confirm this, and that I wanted another card. He tested the card on what seemed to be a smaller, more discreet version of the phones outside, which was just five steps to my right. I wasn´t sure whether it would have been worse or better whether it was going to work, but I was mainly just trying to make the man feel bad when he saw that the card didn´t work. Unfortunately, he was willing to give me another card, but was out of $10 cards, and could only offer me a $20 card if I gave him another 100 pesos. I outright refused to pay for a $20 card, tried in vain to get him to give it to me instead of the $10, and got him to tell me another possible store before storming out the door, ignoring his ¨adios¨ in order to show my frustration. Walking more vigorously and with a healthy glisten from the moisture and sweat, I arrived at his suggested locale, which turned out to be the store right next to the Internet cafe I had tried at first. Pleading for help, they suggested I try a pharmacy, which at only a block and a half away, was closer than El Pescador. Sure enough, I was able to buy a $5 card from the clerk at the pharmacy, and then off I went to the phones up the street, clustered together a few blocks on the other side of my starting location, the internet cafe.At the first phone I reached, I inserted the card, and voila! Magic, it seemed, that a dial tone would be the sound coming out of the receiver. With a bit of heavy breathing, I call home, hear my mother say hello, and begin to tell a somewhat shorter and more exhausted version of what I have written here. Upon finishing, I am just as exhausted as when I began talking, and wait to hear my mother´s response. Nothing. Looking first to the receiver, then to the phone base, I see the word Falla once more. This time, with utter disdain for this horrible place where I could be so unlucky, so pitiful. With what little hope I had left I tried the two phones nearby, but was shot down twice more. It had taken me what seemed like the better part of the afternoon to walk back and forth, but with as much energy as ever, I paced back to the pharmacy, looking to get another card and explain the situation to my parents, who the whole time I could picture waiting and wondering what had become of me. Having tested my disfunctional phone card vocabulary on the cashier at El Pescador, the pharmacy clerk seemed to be surprised by the vigor and articulation with which I explained the uselessness of the card he had sold me. All he had to say was ¨no retornable, no garantia¨ for me to go into a tirade. Trying to speak another language and come up with new phrases to describe my degree of anger and his degree of injustice was difficult, but I managed to presevere, given this was the third time in my spanish speaking career I have gone off on somebody else for heinous acts of the like (the second time was with a park ranger -- look out for that in an upcoming blogging). The possibility of buying another card was gone by this point, particularly from this man. I felt betrayed and deceived, and although this man told me he could do nothing to help, I was so upset I even found him difficult to look at. Looking around the store, my eye caught the bright pink of a Pepto Bismo bottle. For well over a minute I stood there, looking around the store, both waiting to see if he would give in and considering whether to grab the Pepto and run like hell. It would surely come in handy in the coming weeks, and would have given me some justice and revenge. The man would have had no chance catching me, even given the fact I was wearing slightly slippery flip flops. But the chance he could use his own phone and call the police was greater, and the chance the police could find a gringo in a bright green Mexico soccer jersey, turquois aviators, and a bright pink bottle of Pepto seemed to great for me to commit even this, the most just of crimes. And with my head to the ground, tired and having surrendered completely from defeat after defeat, I returned to the internet cafe, to take out my frustration via blog. These difficulties have a tendency to get me down, particularly because such an amount of misfortune and difficulty in accomplishing so simple a task seems so rare in the states. By the time I had reached the internet cafe, I had begun to completely ignore the shouts of ¨Viva Mexico!¨, instead the resentment inside me forced thoughts of whether I even wanted this Mexico to ¨viva¨ at all.

THE VIEWS: Our second day in Mexico, Joel and I found a prime piece of real estate on a bluff hundreds of feet about the crashing waves and coves of the Pacific. After paying a mere three dollars per person to the security guard, we arrived just in time see this sunset before setting up camp. Despite our being told of prohibitively high winds at this particular location, Poseidon granted us a calm night's sleep. The cliffs made it difficult to reach the shoreline the following morning, but soon we were on the road again, in search of a less lofty spot to set up a beach camp.

Coming soon: Stylish aerial maneuvers atop the dunes, the Sea of Cortez from 10,000 ft up, as well as observations on pelicans, gastronomic difficulties, and interesting characters we've met thus far.

THE LAND CRUISER: Behold, in all its glory, our means to so many worthy ends. In its adolescence at a mere 15 years old, the "Bruiser" may have wracked up 193,000 miles in its short life, but still offers responsive handling, excellent scaling ability, and only moderate jiggling on dirt roads. This photo hides an impressive amount of mud collected while rampaging through the puddles of mountain meadows in Parque Nacional Sierra de San Pedro Martir. A leaky water container undoubtedly contributed to a musty, mildewy smell emanating from the rear, but the Royal Pine air freshener up front sufficiently equalized this odor. Here we see the Bruiser resting on the soft sands of El Marron after having speedily delivered its passengers through many kilometers of rocky desert terrain.

Unfortunately the World's Largest Tequila Bottle of Enseñada was emptied just before this photo was taken, by a couple of thirsty gringo dudes.

Behold the power of Scott. The Bufadora, just south of Enseñada, is a spot with the right combination of wind, tidal force, and rock formation. the three elements converge right here behind Scotty, shooting water as high as 30 meters into the air.

The tarantulas of Anza Borrego. Lightning quick and bloodthirsty, these little guys bombarded our camp late at night, possibly even influencing this author's decision on whether or not to bring out the tent. This one also happened to dart right under my left foot as it connected with the ground during a routine step.

Scott enjoying some of the finer things in life: Anza Borrego State Park, chairs with armrests, and 24 oz. bottles of Red Stripe Lager.

Welcome to Big Tejunga, aka Monkey Canyon and Scotty and I's first excursion. This place, however, is not found in the deep, dark jungles of Panama, but just off the 210 interstate in Pasadena. Note the fine frescoes on the surrounding rock walls designed to induce a sense of isolation and tranquility. Diego Rivera? Nope, a collection of talented local artists. Mexico next, I promise.

Poorly Placed Items: This photo is the first of a series intended to highlight various things scattered across the landscape which don't seem to be where they should. Here we have the back end of a graffiti'd-up fuel container for a semi truck that managed to end up atop a large hill previously though accessible only by switchbacks. Also notable: the partially-rotted piece of wood attached to the flagpole. Being our resting location the first night in Mexico, I took the post to be a reassuring omen, as it seemed to be pointing south.

Let the blogging begin...

Okay everybody,

Based on the overwhelming success and expansive notoriety of my good buddy Mike´s Middle East blog (visit it if you haven´t already...http://www.michaelbdiaz.blogspot.com/), I too have decided to create my own blog...though don't anticipate the same level of dedication. I will, however, try to keep you all posted and throw as many pictures into the blog as these laggard Mexican computers permit.

So check it every so often! At least regular postings should ease thoughts and worries of abduction, robbery, or worse...

(Some people may not find my sense of humor comforting, and I shall try to tone it down in the future.)