It was with some sense of trepidation that I approached the Mexican border. Various conversations with folk in the US had led me to expect the worst.
Perhaps the juiciest warning had come from a homeless chap in California, who told me that I would get robbed, before being sexually abused. Great.
American movies don’t generally paint Mexico in a positive light.
Tijuana sounded particularly bad. The nearest thing to a recommendation I had received about the place was that it offered some affordable strip clubs.
I opted for a quieter crossing at Tecate. It promised to take me south through a rural valley, passing numerous vineyards.
Tecate, Valle de Guadalupe and Ensenada
The border process was unnecessarily complicated. You go to an office, get a piece of paper, go to the bank to pay for it, get a receipt, return to the same office to exchange it for a different piece of paper, then head through to security.
You must then preserve this ticket at all costs until you eventually leave Mexico.
Annoyingly it is entirely possible to accidentally enter the country without going through this process, requiring you to seek out a migration office in town before leaving the border area.
The anticipated sepia filter experience was blown away by a substantial rainstorm in Tecate. The streets turned into rivers, and I opted to stay a second night in my hotel until things calmed down.
On this leg of the journey I decided to focus heavily on making YouTube videos to record my journey. Instead of spending my evenings listening to music and writing about the day’s goings-on in my journal, I would be editing videos on my phone. As a result, this edition will be leaning rather heavily on these video clips as a major part of the storytelling.
First impressions of Mexico included that my Spanish was hopelessly insufficient, fresh fruit and veg were cheaper than the USA, and there was a substantial increase in the number of oversized moustaches on display.
The pavements (sidewalks to my friends from across the pond) were raised almost a foot above the level of the road, making walking a bit more of a chore than it needed to be.
The most apparent difference from the USA was the people.
Lots of smiles and greetings. Regular people were happy to stop and have a casual natter, with genuine warmth and curiosity.
The weather improved and I hopped back on the bike.
Traffic was intense on the way out of Tecate. No apparent use of turn signals with rather abrupt turns and lane changes.
Roads were rather poorly maintained and I kept an eye out for potholes and cracks which threatened to swallow my front wheel.
Apparently emissions standards are somewhat different south of the border. I found myself gulping down plenty of noxious fumes from the stream of traffic passing by.
After a while I escaped the busy, built up area. The Valle de Guadalupe offered some great winding roads and expansive hilly vistas.
During the climbs I frequently received cheerful toots from the horns of passing vehicles, accompanied by verbal encouragement. This was in rather stark contrast to the four letter expletives that I had grown accustomed to receiving on the Pacific Coast Highway.
The biggest drama was the presence of cultivation alongside the entirety of the highway. The valley was crammed full of vineyards with their associated barbed wire fences. A bit of an obstacle when you make your living by seeking out secluded spots to camp by the side of the road.
I eventually gave in and stayed at a vineyard-hotel complex, and planned my impending arrival in the next city.
The next day I rejoined the main flow of traffic coming south from Tijuana, and rolled into Ensenada. Established myself in the cheapest hostel I could find and then went out exploring.
A cruise ship was docked in the harbour, which rather inundated the seafront and centre with English speakers.
Local industry was rather geared towards catering for visitors, with plenty of opportunities to taste tequila or mezcal, buy Baja blankets, jewellery or artesanal clothing.
I met a local girl, Hayley, who introduced me to elotes (sweetcorn) filled bags of crisps, covered in salad, beans and a variety of sauces.
We then visited a nearby bar, which apparently was the birthplace of the very first margarita. I didn’t really have anything to compare it to, but the drink was bloody good.
The next day I decided to go off on a short trip south to La Bufadora, before returning to Ensenada to hang out a bit more with Hayley.
My rear derailleur snapped off the frame and thoroughly wrapped itself around the rear wheel, just over a kilometre from my destination.
What a pain in the ass. Mechanically, the derailleur is the most vulnerable part of my bike. Thorn had tried to upsell me on a Rolloff internal gear hub when I first ordered the bike. For just over a thousand pounds extra I would have been almost free from maintenance tasks and far more secure from bashing my drivetrain to bits on various objects in the environment.
I had plenty of time to reflect upon my decision to go cheap during the subsequent week spent crawling between the various bike shops of Ensenada.
Eventually, Hayley tracked down a place with a ten speed derailleur in store. Much appreciated! Time to get moving again.
Apparently the gulf side of Baja was supposed to be quieter in terms of vehicle traffic than the pacific coast, so I opted to make the hilly crossing over to San Felipe.
Ensenada to San Felipe
San Felipe is a relatively bog-standard seaside resort town. There is a nice Malecón (seafront), with plenty of nearby restaurants offering absolutely fantastic Mexican seafood and booze. Within the town itself many of the streets are just made from compacted sand, which made biking around on my narrow tires a bit difficult.
There was a significant police presence in all the touristy areas.
Since arriving in México I had become used to the sight of army pickup trucks with mounted machine guns driving past in convoy.
The police were also armed to the teeth. Body armour, kevlar helmets and armalites.
I wonder what they would have made of a British bobby with their high vis jacket, pepper spray and extendable baton?
An American tourist nodded at the cops and told me that he wasn’t at all worried about potential cartel violence here. I could see his point; anyone wanting to kick off would end up winning a Darwin award in about two seconds flat.
After two nights I felt like I had pretty much exhausted the attractions of the town. Time to head southbound again.
San Felipe to Guerrero Negro
I wasn’t the only traveller arriving from Alaska. Every year grey whales spend the summer months in the Arctic Ocean around Alaska, before migrating south to the shallow lagoons around the Baja peninsula to give birth and nurse their offspring.
Jean-laurent and I had the opportunity to go out on a whale watching tour and see these incredible animals with our own eyes.
Truly a humbling experience. Impossible to convey in words.
I didn’t really make many attempts to take photos. It was one of those life moments best experienced, rather than documented.
Once the young whales are developed enough, their parents lead them out on the perilous migration back to their summer feeding grounds in the Arctic.
Orcas are well aware of these movements, and lay in wait for the adolescent whales.
Guerrero Negro to La Paz
La Paz!
A well named place as any I’ve encountered. It felt more like a regular Mexican town, rather than an expat colony, tourist trap or resort town (of which there are several examples in Baja).
There was a distinctly laid-back vibe. It felt more secure than Ensenada or Guerrero Negro.
The best part of La Paz was the Warmshowers community, hosted by Tuly, a legendary figure in the adventure cycling community.
La Paz is a natural bottle neck for overland travellers coming up or down the Pacific coast, and so for the first time on my trip I couldn’t move for touring cyclists.
We all crammed into a courtyard adjacent to Tuly’s house. Pitching tents or plonking down our bedrolls where we could find space.
There was a real backpacker commune vibe. Lots of beers and stories and general passing around tips and tricks.
I was inspired by all of the off-road rigs on display. These were the bikes that had survived roughly two months of gruelling desert travel on the divide.
You can delve into internet forums and watch endless YouTube videos, but in my opinion nothing beats rubbing shoulders with the people who live and breathe the thing.
There was a wonderful variety of different solutions to essentially the same problems. Lots of DIY bodges as well as couple hundred dollar farkles. Everything from trusty steel frames to light-footed carbon rigs.
Perhaps the most applicable to my experience was Heidi, who had just completed the divide on what was essentially the Surly version of my bike, albeit setup with fatter tyres, lighter luggage and a lower gear ratio.
I was really missing my mountain biking back home, and had become rather fed up of being almost wiped out by traffic on a daily basis.
How hard could it be to make a few cheeky changes to bring about a moderately competent off-road setup with my Thorn?
Riding the cape loop of the Baja Divide
Probably one of my favourite bits of riding on this trip so far, just a really low-key mess around in the sand with Amy, Megan, Dan and Heidi. Bikepackers make bloody good company. I really hope we can share the road again sometime.
Over the course of the ride to Todos Santos I refined my new arrangement through improvisation, solicitation and a considerable amount of faffing around.
Thanks to Heidi for selling me her spare set of chunky tyres, Dan for tuition and Amy for selling me her bar bag.
Gorilla tape, bits of inner tube and hose clamps managed the rest.
By the time I reached Todos Santos, I had pretty much pinned down the new rig, largely inspired by Dan and Heidi’s setup.
Todos Santos is an anomaly in Mexico. Decades ago artists began settling, filling the town with galleries. The place has become something of a mecca for alternative culture, artesanal crafts and yoga retreats.
I got invited out for another shot at interpretive dance. A completely sober, spontaneous movement. Express yourself physically in whatever way you want to in response to the music.
Last time in San Diego I found it to be incredibly liberating.
My companion insisted on exhaling every breath as a loud moan, which was somewhat jarring.
It felt like everyone was trying just a bit too hard to be enlightened, man.
Fortunately, Amy and Megan turned up the next day, with Megan’s family in tow.
Amy was set on renting out a mountain bike and trying her hand at shredding the nearby trails, would I like to come?
It turns out that if you pin it flat out through deep patches of sand the bike just floats over the top. You just gotta believe and send it. The consequences of going on an unplanned diversion into the undergrowth were rather prickly.
Eventually Amy and Heidi had to get going.
I needed to get back to La Paz in order to take the ferry to the mainland.
