The Road To Arizona

The employee at Totonaka RV park was pleasantly surprised to be offered sausages, Mexican jerky (machaca) a few eggs and one can of beer. We kept some wine for dinner and a liter each of tequila and mezcal the maximum allowed by US customs for personal import without duties. The fridge was empty. 

The idea is to expedite our passage through customs. We have a bunch of processed foods we like and they should be okay. You never know how hard customs will come down on you but the best way to piss them off and invite a proctology exam is to hide stuff or lie about the products we’re carrying. We’ll see how right we got it when we present what we have. 

We stopped by Walmart to pick up some souvenir foods and went through the usual Covid temperature test, hand wash and mandatory mask  which I know are forgotten in the US. We haven’t had Covid and don’t intend to get it now so masks will stay with us across the line. In the parking lot we again met Arturo and his car washing gig. Ten bucks and we got a clean van in January.  

Layne wanted one last fish taco at her favorite eatery so we did get that done! There was no hurry so we left town around one o’clock heading up Highway 15 in the hundred degree heat of the afternoon. 

And we had our creepiest encounter with the Mexican military. There’s this permanent inspection station on the highway northbound and we were selected for an inspection. Usually it’s no big deal, they check the van and look around a bit and marvel at the fact we live in the space. Done and dusted. This junior league creep made me feel like he was after my virginity. He poked around, fondled Laynes earbuds longingly (she disinfected them later) and talked about how rich gringos are. He looked at the microwave and expressed resentment that we even have a fridge which I pointed out was empty. No sodas he asked? expecting me to offer him one. Then he stood there like a bellboy expecting a tip. I stood at the driver’s seat and stared pointedly out the window at the notice that advised how to act if the military inspectors acted inappropriately. We stood there in an uncomfortable face off and finally he stepped out. I’d not have given him a soda even had I had one. I felt dirty as we drove away.  Five minutes of feeling fondled. 

Santa Ana is a truck stop town. It reeks of prosperity with two main highways intersecting here. Highway Two comes from Mexicali, the capital of Baja with all that commerce. Then Highway 15 comes south 70 miles from Nogales loaded with trucks and tourists.  Santa Ana has food, lodging, parking and all the services. You can buy vehicle insurance for the US, you can exchange dollars and there’s coffee, waffles, Asian food and so forth all by the side of the road. 

But that wasn’t what I wanted first. I wanted to cruise some history not least because we’ve been through Santa Ana twice and both times we’ve ignored the chance to take a detour. Not this time.

I found old town (Viejo) on Google maps and there we drove, through the highway commercial district and off into the boonies. 

Founded in the 17th century as you’d imagine, Santa Ana Viejo. Pimas Indians lived here until the Jesuits showed up in usual fashion and built the lovely (locked) church. New Town has 10,000 inhabitants while Viejo has but 800 so my walk was short. 

Rusty was freaked out about getting ambushed but I went further afield, no street dogs in sight, and I came across this: 

Apparently Santa Ana is the Ocala of Sonora. They raise championship jockeys here. I was astonished. The streets were empty and I read the inscriptions at my leisure. Thanks to the owners and their dedication (and money I assume) and cheers to the jockeys from this tiny pimple of a town. 

I wanted Rusty to enjoy a proper walk so we drove out into the countryside where he could run at ease.

We ate a cup of ceviche we had brought from Guaymas and it was a bittersweet evening. Mexico was lovely and we had a grand time this winter- the best journey ever. We both love living aboard GANNET2 and are not in the least tired of traveling. Rusty treats the van as his home and safe space but he’s always ready to get out and explore. We pondered our extraordinary nomad life become real, we ate our fish and octopus and watched the countryside turn gold as the sun started to set. 

And then the horses showed up as if to prove this really is horse country. 

On cue Rusty barked a warning and hoped into the van and sat on guard, ears up, watching the monsters stroll by totally ignoring his stress. 

Then they were gone. 

I made some pictures of our last evening in Mexico.

It was time for dinner so we stopped roadside for a final typical Mexican meal, a goat quesadilla (bírria).

A Mexican meat pie. 

There’s a campground in Santa Ana but we didn’t much like it. We stayed one night on our drive round from Baja but it’s not up to snuff with a pretty bad bathroom no shade no WiFi and no reason to park in the fenced gravel lot.

The truck stop at the south end of town was a revelation with a parking area away from most of the trucks with a shaded park with coveted picnic tables, a child’s playground and a toilet block not too terribly wrecked by passersby. It’s noisy but our van is well insulated and if we button up and run the a/c on the batteries we can cut ourselves off from the outside.

That was our last full day. As you read this, if  on Wednesday 15th June we should be in Bisbee for lunch. All will be revealed because as I write this I have no idea how the final 90 miles will go. We will try to make them enjoyable without being too focused on arriving at the destination. As always. 

Totonaka RV

O, To be in England
Now that April 's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!

The first verse from one of my preferred poets, Robert Browning from a poem titled Home Thoughts, From Abroad. He lived in Italy and this was his ode to his distant homeland all summed up in the last line juxtaposed against the classic English Spring depicted, when he looks at “this gaudy melon flower,” an Italian fruit. 

I’ve spent a lot of my life saying goodbye, thinking about what I’ve left behind but in this next transition I find myself looking forward. This winter in Mexico has brought about changes that I neither looked for nor expected. Life on the road relaxes me which is a paradox. I find myself able to cope more easily with setbacks, not always with grace and style which would be asking a lot, but not with as much despair. 

As we prepared for our last full day in Mexico I find myself rejoicing in the reality that the road trip continues, and not despondent that one fascinating trip has ended. This revelation took a while to sink in as the end of a trip used to mean a return to a dreary routine. I’m retired now and am free to look at a map and ponder more driving options. 

I’m looking forward to lunch with Bruce and Celia, two people who are able to mock the irritations in life, a useful example for me to follow. After that pause to regroup we’re figuring our path across Arizona’s back roads to see a friend who used to live on Big Pine Key, and then perhaps some dispersed wild camping at altitude near Flagstaff to enjoy cooler temperatures.  

Over the years of change and fresh starts I have spent too much time looking over my shoulder pondering what I could have done better but now in my van life unrolls all the time seamlessly. I don’t have the inclination to spend time looking back. The driver’s seat obliges me to look forward. And the road buoys me with anticipation and optimism and curiosity. This really is a new life. 

Our chores were done; our camping gear washed dried and repacked, the van cleaned and we were pausing to enjoy the shade of our eucalyptus tree at Totonaka RV park in San Carlos. Tuesday is travel day but Monday was make and mend one last time in Mexico. A woman walked up and introduced herself. I was impressed by her openness to new experience. Hers was its own story as she had married a Bulgarian and spends most summers in Europe, not what you expect of salt of the earth Maryanne from Indiana. She and her husband had bought land in San Carlos and were going to park their travel trailer on it and supervise the construction of their new home. 

They were thinking of a van for travel but her husband came by and interrupted our exchange with an appointment they had to keep and whisked his wife away. She was I think surprised by the extent of our travels across Mexico but that is more often the rule it seems for people who live in Mexico but have never been travelers. Switching countries doesn’t necessarily change the habits of a lifetime. Not I suppose should it. 

Luis Menendez is 80 years old and has worked all his life. Of his three children one lives in San Diego and loves her working life whose details escape him, another son lives in Baja and only one child lives nearby in Guaymas. They think he’s weird because he won’t stop working. He’s worked all his life and he enjoys it. He has a big home and sometimes wonders if he could live in a trailer like the residents of the park where he is the night security guard. 

We watched the full moon ride over the hills across the bay, as the sky darkened. There was a cool evening breeze and Rusty’s walk down the street, not terribly exciting, had relaxed him and he sat next to me watching the diners come and go from the restaurant in front of the RV park. We talked of this and that, the inevitable violence issues in the US and Mexico, the importation of guns from the US that fuel the cartel wars. How easy going Rusty (the perfect dog)  is. His children and their careers versus Layne and my decision not to have children (weird) and living by traveling. Working night shift. And Covid. Four of Luis’ sisters have died as have an uncle and a cousin. Luis has had his shots and he’s waiting for his second booster. He never smoked, drank very little and always had a job. That’s how he got to be so old. And spry.  It was cool enough to do laundry. Layne sent me a text: “Let’s do it.” Luis said he had left the lights on for us in the laundry room. 

Layne was ready to fill our laundry bag and we wandered across the vast empty park to do our last pre-border chore.

Life on the road. Here today, gone tomorrow. 

San Carlos

I did a bad thing today, I helped to subvert a nice young man from the path of productivity and proper social behavior. I wasn’t alone and it happened in two parts. Layne was with me both times and added her own fuel to the fire.

P

He was traveling alone in his Minnesota registered car and he stopped by to ask for some travel advice which of course is the right and proper thing to do.  We told him about the iOverlander app with all its camping and useful facility information. We discussed how to buy safe drinking water and we showed him how to use Google maps with minimal gigabyte wastage. After a while he meandered back with a rather important question: was he in Mexico illegally? It’s easy to do as crossing the border is the first step in learning how to take care of yourself, Mexican style. 

T

When you leave the US you drive straight through, no one checks you when leaving by road. The trouble is, when you enter Mexico no one checks your papers. If customs (aduana) finds you interesting they will pull you over as they did us at Nacho, but they were bored at the small frontier post and they were curious about our camper. Then we were free to go, however we were fortunate in that we knew what to do: we found the immigration office and got our 180 day permit to be in Mexico, no problem. Then we asked where to get our Temporary Import Permit for the van and the officials said to go an hour down the road to Cananea. Who knew? We put Banjercito into Google maps and followed the blue line to the tiny office where the clerk gave us a 180 day permit for our van. But no one told us to follow those steps. And guess what? Young Justin breezed through Nogales with his paperwork prepared, and his deposit paid online but he arrived in San Carlos, four hours south without the precious office stamps showing he had been formally entered into Mexico. What a scofflaw!

For some reason an alarm bell jangled and he came to ask us if he was okay, which he was not. I showed him where he needed to go on Google maps and his shoulders sagged at the prospect of an eight hour round trip through the desert to put himself straight with the law. He started muttering about this all being too much work so Layne and I set him straight. I don’t suppose he really did plan to go home to Minnesota to resume chiropractoring but I wanted to make sure he knew what he would be missing if he stopped short. I know I got through twenty years of sitting still by remembering our sail through Central America and other journeys and I reminded him that when he did come home and settle down he needed travel memories to sustain him through his work years.

I suppose it goes without saying I saw myself in him, thirty or more years ago. I envied him his car and his tent with Mexico laid out at his feet. I am psyching myself up for five dollar gas, leashes for Rusty and Covid precautions that will isolate us in a country determined to override masks and social distancing. Tuesday we leave San Carlos and drive towards the border. Wednesday we get up good and early and go meet the nice folks in green at Naco and pop back to reality after a winter spent through the looking glass. 

Apprehension and excitement. Many people to see and more places to go. Change is good. I expect I shall feel the same way when we return to Naco in December going south with no plans to return.