Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road

by Neil Peart

This must be the nadir of the whole journey (three months long as of yesterday; hard to believe. Or . . . not).

  Often thinking of home now, and hope to make it there — whole — by New Year’s. So much can happen, as we know too well, but I would like to survive to be there this winter, see how it goes, if I can put together some kind of life. Without sliding into that deep, dark hole . . .

  Anyway, the border crossing was easy. In about an hour I had my little “holográfica” sticker, for $11 instead of our three days and who-knows-what in brokerage fees [when Brutus and I flew our bikes into Mexico City], and I was in the dusty streets of Mexicali — where I immediately got lost. Of course: it was Mexico, and a sign was missing somewhere at a glorieta [traffic circle]. Eventually, I found the road west to Tecate, through smoking, crawling trucks, ancient, speeding buses, oil-burning pickups, cringing, tongue-dragging dogs, sudden, unmarked topes [speedbumps], army checkpoints with well-armed teenaged soldiers who spoke no English, dusty roadsides strewn with garbage, potholes, oncoming drivers weaving to miss them and heading straight for me. All the good stuff.

  As our friend Mills would say, “Time to fear!”

  Bypassing Tijuana, I cut west and south to Ensenada (busy and built-up, but fairly nice, with the biggest Mexican flag imaginable billowing above the waterfront), then back eastward to . . . Mike’s Sky Rancho! Mecca for dirt-bikers and Baja racers, but Salvadori warns “it can be a rough 22 miles,” and indeed it was. Dirt, sand, rocks, stones, streams, ruts, and all that. But, he assures you, “a well-ridden Gold Wing [heavy luxury-touring bike] can make it, much to the disgust of the dirt riders,” and sure enough, when I finally pulled in (after having a good, long look at the last 20-foot-wide stream crossing, full of sand and stones) a bunch of guys were standing there beside their one-cylinder, unladen dirt bikes, and one of them started shouting, “How did you do that?”

  “How did you do that?”

  I just said, “With great fear.”

  They all gathered around, and he said, “You came up the same road we did?” I said, “I guess so,” and he blurted out, “But you’re not even dirty!” True, I did look quite smashing: the mechanic at Hollywood BMW had shined up the bike; I had on my relatively new Vansons [summer leathers] for the first time, and I’d even had my boots cleaned up nice in L.A. “Well,” I said, “I guess it’s ’cause I wasn’t following anybody.”

  Really, it was because I’d been going so slow!

  Anyway, it sure looked funny to see my big red GS lined up with about 30 dirt bikes and a couple of ATVs in the courtyard that night. I was their total hero (except for the ones that ignored me, in their “disgust”). Nearly everybody there was on organized Baja tours, so at the communal dinner I was put with the other “oddballs:” two older guys who’d come in by pickup — one an ornithologist, Jim, who’d been flying his private plane into Baja for 20 years, the other a botanist, Norm, who lived in southern Baja. Great dinner companions, and I picked their brains about the flora and fauna I’d been seeing in the southwestern U.S. (it was Jim who confirmed that the swallow-like birds I’d been seeing in the high desert were horned larks), and they told me about the birds and plants I would be seeing further south in Baja. (Here in Loreto, I bought Norm’s book, Plants and Trees of Baja California, so I can learn more of their names.)

  As Salvadori describes Mike’s, “it ain’t fancy, but it’s fun,” and at 4,000 feet it was also darn cold that night (low 30s) and I slept with all my clothes on under the blankets. Since the generator went off at 9:00, and those Petzl headlamps aren’t much good for reading, I was asleep pretty early, and in no hurry to get moving in the morning. And despite my impact on the dirt riders, I wasn’t feeling too cocky, because I still had to make it out those 22 obstacle-ridden miles.

  Of course, it’s often easier that second time, and so it was; especially without the sun in my face, so I could tell the difference between dirt, sand, rock, and stones before I was on it (or in it).

  Then I took another “short cut,” 50 kilometres [31 miles] of decently graded dirt back to the main north-south road; after the ornithologist, the botanist, and Mike himself (son of the original Mike, apparently) had assured me there would be no deep sand. And sure enough, other than some washboard and some deadly switchbacks (Hunter Mountain-like, once more), that was a pretty nice piece o’ dirt.

  Then it was back to diesel cheese and oil-burning pickups for awhile, and I stopped that night at what Salvadori described as a “must stop;” “if you wouldn’t be fazed by the road conditions,” that being three miles of heinous sand on top of a washboard-ridged surface (yikes!) to a place on the Pacific shore called The Old Mill, site of a former mineral refinery and fish cannery, now a pleasant little motel ($25), restaurant, and bar. (The peso is now at 10 to one, so things are cheap.)

  One group of the “dirt-dudes” was staying there too, and it seems they had a bet going among themselves about which route the “street bike” had taken, and some of them were shaking their heads in disbelief when I said “that lovely dirt road going west out of Valle de Trinidad.” Ha-ha-ha! Scooter Trash rules!

  Sort of. Or at least, we used to. Some rival gang done put a double-whammy, heebie, jeebie, triple-gainer, tri-square quadruple, jim-jammer curse on us, that’s what I think. There ain’t no other way to account for all this, less’n we been hexed.

  The last few days have been almost comical in that respect too. Somehow I twisted my back on the way down from L.A. (best I can recall, while looking back at one of those 45° V-intersections), and it’s been giving me fits of pain, stiffness, and impeded motion (familiar to you, I know), then, after 38,000 trouble-free kilometres, my GS has developed a disconcerting “lurch” when I downshift to third (though not when I upshift?) in the last couple of days. In L.A., I bought a spare headlight and taillight bulb to carry with me, and today an indicator bulb went out (of course). I was able to find one here, but while I was installing it, I unlocked the steering to test it and knocked my helmet off the handlebar, scratching the face-shield to hell. Of course I’ve got a spare, but it’s my old bug-and-gravel-pitted veteran of the whole last tour. None of these things would have been a problem a week ago, but now it’s like, well, maybe I can get it sorted out in a couple of weeks, in Mexico City: along with whatever else goes wrong before then. And then there’s my fargin’ ulcer. Yesterday I tried having huevos rancheros for breakfast, and suffered all day, and today I couldn’t resist an omelette “con chorizo y chesa,” and felt like I’d eaten a goddam jumping-cholla cactus!

  What the hell is going on here, you know what I’m saying?

  And of course, as predicted, all the basic functions have become just a little more difficult here: gas, food, water, lodging, riding, navigating, telephones, mail, that sort of thing. (My Bajaexpert dinner companions at Mike’s warned me against trying to send anything home by Mexican mail, so I can only hope this letter will even get to you.) One of the dirt-bike guides also tipped me off about filling up in El Rosario yesterday, for even though my map showed a Pemex in Cataviña, apparently it’s always either out of gas or the pumps aren’t working, and sure enough I had to go over 200 miles before there was another one, keeping the speed around 110 kph [69 mph], and making 370 kilometres [231 miles] on a tankful, and the day before I’d had to use my spare can to make it to another of those widely scattered “Magna Sin” Pemexes. The one I stopped at today had only one of its four pumps working.

  But, to quote the English expression Brad and I love so much, “Still . . . mustn’t grumble.” (Which must always follow an extended rant of grumbling, as this does!)

  Yesterday I did a long stretch, 600 kilometres [375 miles], down through the Vizcaino Desert (can’t think what sets it apart, for all of Baja is desert, I’m learning), passing the famous “boojum” trees, organ pipe and cardón cactus, cholla, some agaves that resembled Joshua trees, ocotillo, barrel cactus, and fat-trunked baobab-like trees (called elephant trees), palo verde, and mesquite, then into a long
stretch of low scrub after Guerrero Negro.

  It was a good road overall, narrow, but not too many potholes. I stopped for the night at the date-palm oasis of San Ignacio, which Salvadori rates as “the most charming town in Baja.” So far I would agree — a laurel-shaded zócalo [main square] walled in by ancient shops and a 17th century Spanish mission, silent but for barking dogs and crowing roosters and kids playing soccer, nestled in a lush valley of date palms amid miles of surrounding cactus desert. At sunset, hundreds of turkey vultures circled in to roost in the date palms and the communication tower.

  The six-unit motel there was $20 (cash in hand, never mind registering or anything “official” like that) and was apparently built by a German sailor who jumped ship in Santa Rosalia (the port just down the road where I had breakfast this morning), back around the turn of the century, and his descendants still run it. So many stories, everywhere I go. Santa Rosalia was developed by the French, as a copper-mining center, and the church there was designed by Gustav Eiffel, all of metal gridwork and riveted panels, for the Paris Exposition in 1886 or so, then disassembled and brought here, to Baja California. Wild. (It looks like a Quonset hut combined with Captain Nemo’s Nautilus from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. In a nice way.)

  Today’s opening journal entry is fairly “illustrative,” I think:

  Nov. 25 San Ignacio — Loreto 95,037 (303 kilometres) [189 miles]

  Sparkling morning riding out through palms, to desert and volcanoes.

  Rare breakfast stop, here on sunny terrace of Hotel Frances in Santa Rosalia, old mining town with locomotive and rusted train cars on display. Nice. Quiet.

  Gila woodpecker on pole, hummingbirds in laurel tree, vulture spreads wings, back to sun, on utility pole across street.

  Eiffel pre-fab church a sight. So many stories everywhere.

  First sight of Sea of Cortez also, blue and calm. Island on horizon. Slept well, back a little better. Blazing through Cadillac Desert — better not run out of books!

  Thinking today as I rode that my survival remains an act of pure will. Holding myself together like a soldier wounded in battle, and feel that I could collapse from within at any time. No peace anywhere, no redemption imaginable. Just sense of waiting, killing time. Waiting for what? For time to pass, I guess. Can there be healing? Don’t think so. Only strive to minimize scars. Not get too twisted, too crippled inside.

  (Still, mustn’t grumble . . .)

  Nov. 26, ’98 Loreto

  Alright, alright, let’s try to lighten this thing up a little. Don’t want to get you all depressed too (oh no!). Obviously, I’m hanging around for another day, and I may stay tomorrow too. I’m tempted, but I’ll wait and decide in the morning. Whatever happens, I’m bound to stay one day too long again.

  Yesterday, I was wading in the ocean a little, and a local started yelling something at me and pointing at the soles of his feet. I was thinking he meant sharp stones, coral, or maybe sea urchins, but I asked at the front desk, and the guy told me he had been warning me about stingrays, and said it wasn’t a good idea to go in barefoot. So I went out and bought some chic black rubber sandals, which will come in handy for walking around in too, now that I’m getting down into the true tropics.

  (Are you getting bored yet, hearing about my shopping? Well, too bad, you big fargin’ loser; what are you, too busy? Ha-ha-ha!)

  As I was saying in a postcard to my grandfather today, “get down here right away; it’s hot, it’s sunny, it’s cheap, and you can lay in a hammock under the palms and read all day!” That’s what I did, other than walk around the pleasant town, visit the old mission and its well-done museum, and go bird-watching along the “malecón” (seawall), the beach, and small lagoon.

  Now I’m going to have the “Thanksgiving Special” dinner here at the Oasis. Not exactly “local cuisine,” but my stupid stomach will probably like it better (though Baja is pretty much “seafood central” anyway, and that hasn’t been a problem). We’ll see what happens when I head over to the “mainland” (as it seems to be called around here), which I’m planning to do by the ferry between La Paz and Mazatlán. I haven’t yet looked at the map beyond there. Maybe I’ll head for Oaxaca, for a start. Just for you.

  Because of course it’s written between all these lines that you are sorely missed on this trip, but be assured that there are several roads and interesting places that Salvadori goes into positive raptures about, especially some particularly tempting dirt side-trips, that I’m going to pass up. And not only because I’m “un pollo” [chicken] (just ask the guys at Mike’s Sky Rancho, man!), but I’ve got to save a few things for us to explore, right?

  (By the way, I forgot to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving. Since you’re an “American Resident” these days, did they give you a special dinner? Also, if you have to hang around there for a while, do you think they’ll give you a green card? Probably . . .)

  Anyway, it’s about time to bring this exciting episode to a close, in hopes that maybe I can get it mailed tomorrow. (And then its adventure will begin: here to La Paz to Mazatlán to Mexico City to who-knows-where, and hopefully, to you.) Our last phone conversation left me feeling that you had a pretty good grip on your situation, with realistic expectations (hardly “hopes”) for your immediate future, and I sure hope it works out in some more-or-less “tolerable” fashion.

  I’m sure you’re not exactly a happy camper these days, and I imagine you’re looking forward to Christmas about as much as I am. And like me, at best you can only feel resigned: “just sense of waiting, killing time. Waiting for what? For time to pass, I guess.”

  Still, mustn’t grumble . . .

  Your, Ghost Rider

  After a longish march through the pretty little town of Loreto to the post office, I walked back along the malecón to watch the boys fishing off the pier. They were pulling them in as fast as they could. One rangy-looking young man came over to my perch on a big rock and tried to engage me in conversation. He said he was from Sinaloa, the state directly across the Sea of Cortez from Baja California, and when I told him I was from Toronto, he nodded sagely and said, “Blue Yays,” which stumped me for a moment, until I realized he must be a baseball fan.

  He asked me if I wanted to go to a “Mexican party,” with “lots of ladies,” and when I declined, he asked if I wanted some “mota.” I didn’t know that word, but he translated it as “weed” (apparently from la motivador, “motivator,” curiously). When I said no thanks, he said, “You prefer smoking ‘skunkweed,’ like the Americanos?” I shook my head no again, and said “too many police.”

  Cryptically, he said, “I forgot about that.”

  I continued ignoring him as much as I could, watching the fish and the birds, but he persisted, telling me in a confiding way, “I’m shy too.”

  I nodded and shook his hand, then walked back to the Oasis motel and went for a swim in the warm, shallow sea, then lay in the hammock for awhile. I finished Cadillac Desert and went on to Mark Twain’s Roughing It, an account of his travels from Missouri to gold-rush country during the 1850s.

  In the evening, I walked back up the malecón to a restaurant with the unfortunate name of El Chile Willie’s. I ordered a chowder, which never came, and I waited so long for my skewered shrimp and lobster that I wrote six pages of a letter to my friend Gay, bringing her up to date on my latest travels, inner and outer.

  Back along the water again, I stopped at the hotel bar, thinking I would sit outside with a cognac and continue writing the letter to Gay. There were only two other customers, a very drunk, though pleasant, English couple. The man could hardly talk, his face all slack as he intently tried to pour the contents of his saucer into his cup. The “Englishman’s wife,” on the other hand, started talking and couldn’t seem to stop.

  In an accent that is called “Estuary English,” as spoken by educated people in the general area of the Thames estuary, everything she said seemed to end with an exclamation mark. “You’re so quiet!,” she said, “I’v
e been watching you!”

  “You must be on sabbatical, aren’t you? Is that it? Always reading and keeping to yourself, aren’t you? You want nothing to do with humanity, do you? What are you reading so seriously, anyway?”

  I just blushed and mumbled something about Mark Twain, looking down at my feet, and she kept going.

  “You want nothing to do with humanity, I can see it! Oh yes! I’ve been watching you!”

  I blushed and mumbled again.

  “You’re a striking-looking gentleman, you are!” (Me?)

  “I call you the gentle giant!” (What?)

  “You’re my gentle giant!” (Me?)

  “Really, you’re just it with me — you and my husband!”

  That worthy looked up with a drunken laugh and said, “You can try that role for 24 hours if you like, mate.”

  I blushed and mumbled some more, and he motioned to the bartender to bring me another cognac, on him. Thanking him, and nodding quickly to his wife, I went outside to sit and write, eventually confiding to my journal, “must admit she got me all ‘kerfuffled.’”

  From Loreto, I continued south along the narrow Baja peninsula to La Paz, taking a scenic route recommended by Clement Salvadori in Motorcycle Adventures in Baja, on 40 miles of smooth dirt through rugged cactus desert to a paved stretch of what used to be the main road, the so-called “West Side Highway.”

  La Paz, the capital of Baja California Sur, was a good-sized city (100,000 people), a fishing-boat harbor with a nice waterfront and an imposing stone cathedral on the zócalo of trees and gardens. Checking into the hotel right on the harbor, the first thing I did, while fishing for a tip for the bellman, was drop my wallet down the elevator shaft. Passport, credit cards, cash, traveller’s cheques — everything. It took two maintenance guys about half an hour to get it out of there, between two sticks poking down through the doorframe.