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Big fun in Baja
Submitted by Michael Fielding on Wed, 01/07/2009 - 11:34am.
February 21, 2008
I’m on my second business trip in two weeks, but it’s just been three weeks since I started this new job. While everyone at home is bracing temperatures that continue to dip down near the zero mark, I’m lazing on the beach at the southern tip of Baja California overlooking the Sea of Cortez and crystalline azure waters coming in off of the Pacific just a few miles to the west.
The Presidente Intercontinental Los Cabos – actually located just outside of the hilly Spanish colonial town of San Jose del Cabo – is a pleasant all-inclusive place (which, I’ve decided, isn’t really me). Anyway, it’s Thursday, and I’m done for the day with the convention. I leave tomorrow, and I was hoping to go whale watching or visit a sleepy little town just north of here called Miraflores. But I’m either too late in planning, or here’s no way to get there without a car. So here I lie, on the beach sipping margaritas and working on a quick midwinter burn.
I just got up for a margarita and figured I’d pay a visit to the hawkers perched at the edge of the resort’s property line – right in between the resort and the shore. I usually don’t do very well with hawkers because I take all the fun out of negotiating, not because I don’t negotiate but because I ****** them off with my ridiculously low-ball offers. These guys are selling jewelry, typically, and I was checking out a bracelet for my wife. “How much?” I asked. “Forty-five.” “Forty-five dollars?” “Yes.” “Wow.” “How much do you want to pay?” “Ten.” And he gave me that angry, condescending laugh I always get when haggling. “No way, my friend.” At that point they’re usually so angry at my insulting ofer that they just give up and refuse to continue the negotiation – unless I’m willing to pay nearly full price. They just give up because I talked them down too much. This time was no different.
I made my way down the sandy slope to the shore, which was noticeably free of people – perfect. Just a few dozen recent hoof prints from the horseback tour that passed by a half hour ago. The waves break harmlessly just 20 yards or so from shore. It wasn’t until I was standing ankle-deep in the foamy brine that I noticed gold flecks in the receding waters.
I would creep up onto the shore, and in the brief moments before it returned to the sea, the shoreline – calm and generally still – sparkled with millions of gold flecks. I picked up some sand and let it slip from my palm, dropping countless tiny gold particles back to the receding water to be carried out – and eventually back. Again. The view to the east is pretty plain, with a few miles of beach and a mountainous, but unremarkable, horizon.
To the west, the shoreline juts south for a few miles before continuing west toward the more renowned Cabo San Lucas. Sharp-peaked hills disappear into the shoreline, framing a decent beach landscape populated by about as many thatched huts as people. Half a dozen jet skis and the occasional deep-sea vessel are the only things in the waters that were once popular among pirates in the18th century.
Pirate raids long the coast became more common between La Paz and Cabo San Lucas in the mid-18th century, so the Spanish set up a permanent settlement to discourage such raids but also to fight insurgency among the Guaycura and Pericu Indians.
In 1730 Jesuit priest Nicholas Tamarand founded Mission San Jose del Cabo. The Spanish later established a presidio to protect the young community from the Indians as well as the nearby estuary from English pirates. Eventually, the presidio was turned over to Mexican nationals in the mid-19th century. Not until the post World War II years, when farmers and ranchers trickled into San Jose, did the area attract much modern attention. The sun-and-sand set began to settle in in the 1960s, but despite its rise in prominence among resort-goers, San Jose still retains its colonial charm and relaxed ambiance.
That ambiance is evident long before landing in Los Cabos among the lush green mountains in a valley situated just north of San Jose del Cabo.
Actually, it began long before we even arrived at the southern tip of Baja California: “Folks, we knew we’d get out of Texas some time,” the captain said on the intercom. “And if you look out either side of the plane you’ll see we’re about to do that. There’s the Rio Grande. It’s going to be about another hour.”
In between patches of desert, the crags snake through the green-black hills, forming a landscape that resembles thousands of little caterpillars – feeding light and shadow into the otherwise dry, sparsely populated Sonoran Desert. Copper Canyon is distinguishable from the air: The generally flat land suddenly gives way, and the canyon separates into the deep, narrow valleys and the miles of rolling peaks.
After landing, I took a while to get through Customs and out of the airport – but that was fine with me. I had left behind blowing snow and temperatures that barely made it out of the teens. Besides, I was in Mexico. Deep into Mexico. And the air was clean and sweet.
The sky was nearly cloudless, and the sun was so intense that it gave a sharp glare to everything its light hit – cactus, the squat stucco shacks by the roadside, even the inside of the tightly packed van that rumbled through heavy traffic and narrow roads – not to mention blocks and blocks of happy uniformed schoolchildren just completing their day and swarming the streets. I checked into the hotel (my second stay at an IHC hotel, the first being in Beirut, which was nice, if not extravagant) with enough time to hit a beachside restaurant for some fish and chicken quesadillas and a couple margaritas.
A few more margaritas and a couple trips around the resort later, I realized that these all-inclusive places aren’t really for me, since I prefer to explore on my own, and I crave authenticity (although I do have to say that IHC has done a great job of recreating an authentic Mexican atmosphere with its blocky, stucco architecture, cabanas and multitudes of palm trees). Anyway, the night ended with a late supper at the gourmet Mexican restaurant. I was pretty drunk on margaritas at that point, so I’m not sure of what I ate (I vaguely recall beef and tomato sauce).
Wednesday afternoon was much more productive. After calling my wife, I found a spot at the pool, where I swam a little and relaxed a lot. It’s at a great location, at the easternmost point on the strip of resorts and adjacent to an estuary where local horses feed during the day. The main pool is surrounded by tall, thriving palm trees and is just 50 yards from the beach. I hear that the days here are all the same, except during hurricane season: high 70s, completely sunny and refreshingly breezy. No wonder for the laid-back atmosphere.
After a couple hours in the sun and at the swim-up bar, I changed and headed out to explore Centro San Jose.
Half-an-hour walk north are the playa and the century-old buildings of the formerly colonial town. A massive Mexican flag flies overhead, and tourist traps, cafes and tequila shops all line the narrow streets, which I wandered in a happy state of tropical disorientation for hours. I stopped at what was the mission’s original church (currently being renovated), and popped into a tequila shop for a $20 bottle of a 100% agave reposado called Orendain.
The town itself has a genuine, authentic feel, despite the proliferation of shops set up obviously to cater to the tourists. Its old colonial buildings still stand with wrought-iron gates and converted gas lamps setting the scene for a good escape from the polished sheen of the resorts. I picked up some souvenirs and headed back to the resort, all the while unaware of a spectacularly clear lunar eclipse overhead.
I dropped off my things and caught a taxi back to town to a place called El Meson del Ahorcado (The Hangman), the town’s most interesting – and eclectic – restaurant, whose motto is: “Tacos & tacos.” I ordered a trio of spicy pork, chicken and beef tongue tacos and gorged on the 10 bowls of condiments, from hot sauce and salsa to a whole bunch of other indescribable Mexican condiments. A BYOB place, it’s little more than an outdoor shack with corrugated roofs over the kitchen (whose little old ladies fry their own corn and flour tortillas) and a tent-like vinyl “roof” supported by poles over the main dining area.
“Established since 1978” reads the sign, and three decades’ worth of Mexican license plates hang on the wall. Above in the makeshift rafters hang miniature, carousel-like horses. And a snappy lounge piano player clad in a ‘70s-style sport coat and tiny fedora tickles the synthesized ivories after 9 p.m. He kicked off his set with a lengthy, vaguely improvisational rendition of “Blue Spanish Eyes.” Excellent.
It’s dark at The Hangman, where the service is no-nonsense, and so is the food. A Fidel Castro look alike mans the counter where tourists can buy souvenir T-shirts for $15 or hail a cab, or in my case hire the woman sitting next to Fidel to drive me into Centro for the same price as a cab. The only catch was that she didn’t speak English, so when I gave her $10 at my destination (a karaoke bar where the only thing playing was bad club music and a soccer match on Fox Sports, “en vivo”) I had to request change.
Either way, its was an eventful end to my first true full day in Mexico.
* * * * *
San Jose del Cabo, Mexico
Feb. 22, 2008
My free time Thursday was spent doing pretty much what everyone does at these all-inclusive places: nothing. But that was alright. My wife said that I deserved it, and I guess I did. It was nice, but I couldn’t handle too much of that lounge-and-do-nothing thing. Still, it was relaxing.
Faced with the afternoon and evening off (my meeting ended shortly before 12:30, and I had made the requisite post-meeting contacts with industry folk), I had planned on heading north to Miraflores. The farther away from Cabo San Lucas, I thought, the better. But the concierge, who clasped her hands, smiled and fondly told me that she was born there, promptly told me that aside from nothing to do (even get a meal at a local restaurant) there was no way in and out of the town without a car. Sure, I could hire a taxi from San Jose, but no one would take me back for the return trip. The last thing I wanted to do was to take a typical trip to Cabo to pay tourist prices for snorkeling or something else equally mundane (well, it’s not really mundane, but I had never heard of the area being great for snorkeling).
Anyway, I had read that Miraflores, just about 25 miles north of San Jose, is a sleepy, quaint little place that is several hundred years old. I had read about its leather products and sweet basil and the famed hot springs. Well, it didn’t happen, so I stopped by a beachside hut and munched on fish quesadillas and nachos and sipped a couple more margaritas.
In the end, it was relaxing. I got some sun, saw a part of the world I'll likely never see again and breathed fresh, warm air in the middle of February.
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