Pothole Highway

Puerto Lobos was in the throes of a cold front that the day before had dumped inches of rain and freezing temperatures on Tucson. 

We were tired of strong winds and temperatures that were the wrong side of uncomfortable and we wanted to head south. So we did. 

We rejoined Highway Three and headed toward Puerto Libertad half an hour south. It was Sunday morning and we were still all alone on the road. Odd, we thought but who were we to complain?  Layne got up as I turned onto the main road and we bowled along at a steady 55. It was a pleasant drive through the desert lined by spectacular mph rains and glimpses of. The Sea of Cortez to our west. 

Layne suggested a pause do. He could get comfortably settled and as a bribe to the driver she promised me a cup of freshly brewed Yorkshire Gold tea. Rusty voted for a stop as he loves the desert. 

The turnout had a couple of roadside memorials in the Mexican style. The headstones indicated a 35 year old mother and her eight year old son died in 2008. That provoked some reflection. 

The road to the power station and solar array was broad and smooth and easy. We passed a cop staffing a solo checkpoint with his dog at his feet. I was prepared to stop but he smiled and waved, I responded and we never went below 40 mph. Perfect.  We had places to be. 

We were going to Costco three and a half hours away. Layne thought I was pulling her leg when I told her there was a Costco in Hermosillo. A likely story she said. Okay then I said feeling very superior. Until we found out why we were alone on the highway. 

The photos don’t show the difficulty posed by two deep ruts and a rather tall pile of sand in the middle. It became evident as I plunged our low slung van into the mess that it was as well we had put a skid plate under the engine. We were riding on the dirt.  The wheels spun a bit in the muck but I held firm and with some wiggling (by GANNET2) and breath holding (by us) and we were through and into the liquid mud.  

We got out the other side and looked at each. That’s why we were alone on National Highway Three. The Cuota (toll road) takes an hour more than the free road which is never the case. Obviously we took the free road. Silly us. 

We then met this huge truck bowling toward us. Our first thought was: how is he going to get through that mess?  Our second thought was: if he can make it here from Hermosillo we should be fine. That was sn exaggeration. 

By comparison this water crossing simply required us to take the bank and lean over a bit. Quite a bit. In the US a puddle on a road usually indicates a few inches of water maybe. In Mexico a hole could be six inches or six feet deep.  No telling. 

The potholes lasted 60 miles or so and they were terrible. The road in the distance might look smooth but as you closed in you could see black specks developing and I soon learned we couldn’t drive more than 35 mph and mostly less than twenty to give me time to take evasive action. 

Often I would come to a halt and drive around holes or even through them if they were wide and clearly

unavoidable. The agony went on forever, it seemed. 

We stopped to give us a break and for Rusty to get an explore in the desert he loves so much. Layne made me a second cup of tea and I spent useful time trying to take a selfie. Four days without a shower and dry desert air does my hair no good. 

Rusty had a blast disappearing into the shrubbery while I kept an eye on the non existent traffic, visible for miles. It was a surreal silent spot. Nowhere to pull over so we stopped in the road. Use the flashers Layne said so I did though I wasn’t sure anyone would notice or care. Imagine this scenario in the US. It would confuse American drivers no end poor dears. 

I promise the road was a pincushion of holes even though you can’t really see them. 

If I accidentally took them at speed there was some horrible banging from poor old GANNET2. 

And to add injury to insult they’ve stopped making mens 13 Crocs in pink. Probably just as well in Mexico. 

One other exciting wrinkle is the technique used to mark road problems of a greater order of magnitude. A sinkhole or collapsing bridge support or a failing culvert will be marked with a pile of dirt, or rocks, or sticks with bottles on them,  or pieces of orange plastic from broken road markers. You see that and you slow down if you are new to the area. 

It might have been a total coincidence but at the exact point where big farming concerns were operating the road miraculously improved beyond all recognition. It was as though road building comes in response to the wealth of the landowners. Unworthy thought. 

Meanwhile we spotted a dude with his thumb out. He could either have been a narco trafficker out to murder us or he could have been Alfredo who missed the bus and needed a ride to his farm work site miles away. We delivered him and as we did he explained he goes to work Sunday and comes back Friday and spends Saturday at home. He works on a farm currently raising watermelon (sandia) and squash (calabasas). Not an easy life. We caught a picture as he marched off to work. A tough old guy. 

After we completed our shopping we set off for the road to Guaymas where there was a truck stop rumored to offer hot showers as reported on the iOverlander app. On the road we saw a man walking and we gave him a ride across the desert. Eric’s story was that he is from Chiapas a southern. State traditionally ignored by the central government. He said quite bluntly racism made it hard for him to get work but he was out looking. We got him across 70 miles of desert in a little more than an hour. He was so tired he fell asleep on the floor behind our seats. 

Rusty interestingly turned his position between the front seats and kept a firm eye on the intruder. We were quite impressed. I guess he loves us. We dropped him off and have him some money food and a bottle of coke we had been hoarding. Layne burst into tears as we drove back towards San Carlos. She has always had a soft spot for the underdog. 

The truck stop had showed at three dollars each and provide your own soap and towels. Layne had on and off got water in hers but I got a nice steady stream of hot water. It felt great after five days of personal  dust catching. Hopefully it will be warm enough to use our solar shower if not here then further south. 

Our next stop we hope will be warm enough for us to stay on the beach in a wild camp north of Guaymas for a few days to relax and do some outdoor living. We are tired of the cold. We can handle it but we don’t enjoy it. 

Puerto Lobos, Sonora

New Year’s Day in the fishing village looked pretty much like any day. The wind honked all day, sweeping across the rocky peninsula with a chill blast that kept us in the van except when we dressed up to go for a walk in the bright summer sunshine. This was not what we came south to enjoy. 

Rusty was driven indoors by the wind too and our plan to set up table and chairs and mooch around working on our faded Florida tans went by the wayside. 

The Sea of Cortez looked dramatic with the onshore wind and waves built up in the vast arc of beach that Rusty and I walked in the morning. He ran and I followed and eventually we got back to GANNET2 flush with exercise and a frost bitten nose for me. 

The dinner menu as planned by the chef of Café Gannet called for a sausage stir fry with quinoa however amongst all our stores we lacked a vital ingredient. We got dressed for a bit of polar exploration in pursuit of the elusive Red Onion. 

We met no zombies on our walk but we did meet dogs of all shapes and sizes, not emaciated but outdoor dogs certainly who came into the street to inspect Rusty. They are all bark and no bite and he soon figured out his place. 

I didn’t get to see the store as I stayed outside with Rusty and an overly friendly dog who tried to nose between me and my bud and he was not happy. Then some arse in the village set off a couple of loud fireworks and Rusty got a panicked look.  I put him on the leash and kept him close. It’s PTSD from his time as a stray when Everglades farmers tried to shoot dogs abandoned on their land. 

Layne found the red onion and we headed back to the van. The welcoming committee was over it and we passed the house with a million dogs amid a pack of sleeping indifferent locals. Rusty’s tail went up, his bounce came back into his strep and all was well once again. Plus we had the onion. 

We took a short cut bored by the walk along the road. We wandered through mangroves, stepped over a fast running salt water creek, through another one, through sticky mud and over soft sand. Rusty got bored waiting and wandered off with a couple of new friends to explore. He met us up the street as we climbed the hill back to the van in our exclusive windy vacation home neighborhood. 

Later, after lunch and a nap we walked out for the last time across the beach, round the hill and up to the lighthouse. It was windy as hell and cold. I looked out across the frothy white water and decided it was time to go. South. 

Back at GANNET2 Layne was in total agreement and we plotted our escape. The idea is to stop in Hermosillo and pick up some fruit and vegetables in the city and then move south to see if we can find some Florida temperatures for outdoor living. We’ve proved to ourselves we can handle cold and discomfort. The van is perfect for our needs. 

We got six month permits for ourselves and our vehicle at the border which along with our six month insurance policy means we don’t have to leave Mexico before the end of June. At this stage we are keeping an open mind but it’s on the cards we may spend more time exploring Mexico and skip Alaska. We know we can be cold but it’s not brilliant fun for us. 

Those considerations are for later and we shall see. Certainly there is no point in crossing to Baja where it will be just as cold. We crave outdoor living not polar expeditions. 

This was the perfect first stop for us, a way to ease into a new culture, a way to avoid the New Year’s noise and a place for us to slow down and find our feet and we are very grateful to Todd. 

Time to roll. Six hours to Guaymas from here with a stop at Costco in Hermosillo, mostly to see what they offer in Mexico as our needs are modest. 

It’s a pretty place off the main road but we would like to be in a town with some life. Everyone wears masks in Mexico, no discussion. A sidewalk café, some beer and tacos, some window shopping as we walk Rusty, all in shirt sleeve weather; that would be nice. 

Rusty’s adaptability and his curiosity and his happy wagging tail make our van a home. This is a poor country in these marginal places and people don’t have much but their dogs have even less. He’s a lucky guy and my priority is to reassure him and keep my distance from the little beggars. We carry food for them but I’m not here to change their lives. Rusty sees to that! 

We shall remember this place fondly but we are ready to be explorers. 

Forgotten By God

It was New Year’s Eve and we were 90 minutes from our destination at the beach. Cousin David’s neighbor in Tucson has kept a vacation home in a tiny run down fishing village and he offered us a space to park as we were looking for a quite spot to rest and relax keeping Rusty from scary fireworks. The plan worked perfectly. 

We left the dank gray truck stop around 8:30 after a peaceful night wherein no one bothered us, despite Mexico’s scary reputation. What did bother us was not being able to pull down pesos from the Scotiabank ATM in Caborca.  US banks aren’t allowed affiliates in Mexico but Canadian  banks differ from no such restrictions. However our debit card failed us: no money. And we needed cash for our trip to the beach and a fishing village stay where we expected to find no services. We weren’t wrong on that. 

We had to call First State Bank of the Florida Keys who activated our card for Mexico use and off we went to get cash. A nice young Mexican who “wanted to practice his English” helped us with done of the strange extra moves required of the bilingual ATM. Did we want a conversion? That it turned out meant  did we want Pesos or Dollars? What an odd question. Travel and learn! 

The coast road was long and straight  and deserted. We drove forty minutes and saw maybe three cars…and a few thousand saguaro cacti. 

The prospect was a quiet parking spot in this place: 

To get there we had three miles of washboard sand track to drive. No problem once we were sure of our direction. The problem arose when we reached downtown as it were. 

All we had to guide us was a picture of Todd’s house and a promise that Arturo would guide us to a parking spot. There were a surprising number of sandy streets to drive. 

“Follow him,” Layne said as the van passed us. “That looks like the most traveled street.” Good enough. But it didn’t get us anywhere. We turned around at water’s edge. 

The villagers must have been laughing as we drove back and forth. 

Eventually Layne texted Todd and we got a call from Arturo. In perfect English he explained he was away, doubtless seeking family and bright lights for the special night. Find the blue house near the lighthouse with fishing boats and a truck with a water tank on it. Sounds vague enough, right? It worked perfectly once we backtracked and followed the most used wheel ruts in the sand. 

Arturo senior didn’t speak English ( to us at least) but he knew the way, showed us where to park and disappeared. We were alone. I stood in the breeze outside GANNET2 and watched the pelicans. 

The rain, the industrial scenery, the frigid temperatures, the serious Mexico of industry and commerce was behind us. This dusty fly blown messy trash filled village, resounding with out of season silence and blank facades was where we wanted to stop for a week. 

The main part of the village is filled with local dogs which in Mexico live on the streets, fed more or less and hanging out in clusters like naughty school kids on recess. Rusty finds them annoying. In our upper class neck of the woods where the empty visitors homes cluster there are no dogs.  Bonus. 

The views, once you get past the trash and rusty barbed wire fences is quite surprising, waves, turquoise waters and arid hillsides.

AsLayne pointed out we are better off not on a soft sand beach where the breeze will send sand particles into every prefixes of ourselves the van or the dog. 

The street dogs crowded Arturo’s car as he led us through the village. They stared in awe at our vast overwhelming Golden Van, and stood respectfully aside.

Rusty inspected the area round the van and then spent the afternoon passed out. He has a bad influence on me do I laid down next to him. Layne followed suit and put her feet up in the seats and soon we were all snoring the afternoon away. Great way to refresh our journey worn bodies. 

The idea of not driving for a few days…cell phone service most of the time…vast stretches of sand at low tide and so forth. Well we could manage that I think. 

This isn’t a fancy place, a resort or a wealthy gringo playground. They have purified water for drinking, electricity and street lights, but oddly we saw no church. Fishing and self reliance, ignored by the outside world. I wonder if we will get a peek inside their world. Forgotten by everyone else. 

This will do nicely as a place to wind down and slow the pace. Thank you Todd.