CHAPTER TEN
IN THE BAG
THEIR ROUTE continued south along the shoreline of Bahía San Luis Gonzaga, but once they passed the bay, the road veered away from the coast and made a gradual but steady turn westward, back toward Highway 1. The road leveled out and was fairly straight, so Ken risked driving a little faster than he had been able to on the rougher dirt tracks they encountered the day before.
They approached Highway 1 with a sense of relief and a newfound appreciation for the advantages of smooth pavement. Their plan was to head south toward their next stopping point, which was Bahía de Los Angeles.
As a spiel in Rick’s guidebook put it, Highway 1 was the main artery that traveled the full length of the Baja peninsula. It was completed in 1975 and ever since had made the lower part of the peninsula much more accessible. The completion of Highway 1 had been essential to Baja’s development. Formerly, many parts of southern and central Baja had remained very remote, and large portions of the peninsula had remained unexplored and uninhabited.
Today’s Highway 1 was a modern, paved, two-lane road, upon which tourists could venture with complete confidence—according to the official publications of the Mexican government. There was some truth in this claim, but not enough to lure the savvy traveler into a false sense of security. The highway was not for the casual driver, and it demanded respect. The lanes were narrow, only about nine feet wide, with absolutely no shoulder on either side. Most of the highway was well maintained, but some sections had fallen into disrepair, and killer potholes lay in wait, ready to attack the tires of the unsuspecting tourist. Guardrails were few and far between, and it was assumed that the driver either knew how to stay on the road or was prepared to accept the consequences of not keeping a firm grip on the steering wheel at all times.
Speed limit signs were of course posted at regular intervals, but they seemed to be ignored by virtually everybody who drove on the highway. The basic rule of thumb appeared to be to take due note of the speed posted on the sign and then automatically double it.
The one thing Highway 1 did have going for it was the relative paucity of vehicles on it. Even though it was the major thoroughfare of the region, traffic was surprisingly light, and it was not unusual to go for ten or fifteen minutes, or even longer, without seeing another vehicle. As a result, Ken and Rick made good time.
After traveling for less than an hour on Highway 1, though, their itinerary required them to turn eastward, off the beaten path, heading back toward the Sea of Cortez. The road leading from Highway 1 to Bahía de Los Angeles was at least a paved one. While on it, they traveled for over an hour without seeing another car. They even had to slow up at one point to let a herd of wild burros scatter from the roadway and retreat into the desert scrub.
Bahía de Los Angeles turned out to be a relatively small, sleepy fishing town that obviously didn’t see very much tourist activity at this time of the year, no doubt as a result of its remote location. Later, as the pickup completed its ascent of a steep hill, the view of the bay opened up to them. The deep-blue water contrasted sharply with the muted browns and tans of the desert shore. Several large islands, majestic but forlorn-looking, shimmered in the afternoon sunlight.
It was at this point in their journey that Rick and Ken had their first experience of the Baja peninsula’s changeable weather. It was late spring, and the area was undergoing its annual transition to the sustained heat of the summer months. The transition wasn’t necessarily a smooth one. They immediately noticed a drop in the air temperature and sudden surges of stiff wind. Strong gusts rocked the truck, and there were visible whitecaps out in the bay. From their vantage point, they could see that the road meandered down the desert plateau in sweeping S-curves until it finally met the water’s edge.
“Is it going to storm?” Ken asked.
“Maybe. If it does start raining, we’ll have to pull over and make sure none of the things tied to the rack will get wet. I’ve got a tarp folded up in one of the storage bins. We can break that out, if we have to.”
The town consisted of one main street that ran parallel to the shore. The street was lined with small beach houses on one side and little restaurants and shops on the other. This main drag extended for no more than a mile in toto. By now, the wind was kicking up huge dust clouds that blew through the town and whipped the bay into a white froth. Because of the nearly hurricane-strength wind, they decided to try to find lunch in the town and indoors rather than attempt to put something together themselves out in the open.
They chose a little diner, which turned out to be slightly more upscale than they had anticipated. It had indoor seating, a waitress, and freshly laundered tablecloths covering the tables. The food was simple but filling. Fried fish was the special of the day, so they ordered that, with some quesadillas topped with fresh avocado on the side. As they ate, the wind continued to rattle the windows of the restaurant, and when Ken asked their waitress about it, she said that although it was especially strong that day, it was not uncommon for that time of the year. The windstorm had started up several days ago, and in all probability would last a couple more before it subsided. The locals were used to it.
“Then we’ll have to get used to it too,” Rick declared philosophically.
“We’ll have to pick out a sheltered campsite tonight, though, if we can find one. And peg down the tent extra securely, so it doesn’t blow away in the middle of the night.”
Their map indicated several good camping sites north of the town, so they decided to search for a place to spend the night at one of these. What they hadn’t anticipated was that this required traveling along the worst few miles of unpaved washboard road they had encountered so far. It was a jolting experience, but finally they were rewarded by some truly beautiful beach camping at a spot called Punta Gringa.
Punta Gringa was a spit of land jutting out into the bay and forming its northern edge. There were a number of campsites, but the men pretty well had the entire area to themselves, so they were able to pick and choose with an eye to staying out of the direct path of the wind, if possible. After debating, they backed the truck into their own private cove and set up camp close to the water’s edge.
Pegging down the tent required a little more effort and perseverance than usual, as the wind still whipped all around them. Even though the air was still chilly with the wind blowing, they impulsively decided to go snorkeling.
The water was crystal clear, but it was also icy cold—nipple-hardening, testicle-shriveling cold. After some initial gasping and screaming about just how cold it was, the two swimmers put their heads under and looked around. Ken found the submerged rock formations interesting in their variety of textures and colors. The sharp contrast between the wind whistling on the surface and the silence underwater was especially striking. Ken saw a large starfish, deep purple in hue. When he gently poked at it, it closed up its five arms in an instinctive gesture of self-defense, only to open them again warily after a pause. All around him in the water, Ken saw darting fish, striped in a dazzling range of iridescent jewel-like colors.
After almost an hour of romping about in the water, they felt thoroughly chilled and decided it was time to get out, towel themselves dry, throw some bulky warm clothes on, and make dinner.
“I never thought we’d actually be wearing these sweats you told me to bring along,” Ken admitted.
“I did my homework,” Rick bragged. “It can get cold here, even out in the desert, especially at night. But don’t worry. Once we get out of this windstorm, it’ll be back to T-shirts and shorts.”
They warmed themselves by greedily downing a first course of hot, creamy potato soap.
“What do you want for the main course?” Rick asked.
“Anything, as long as it’s hot.”
Rick improvised, opening a can of corned beef hash and heating it in the saucepan with a freshly chopped onion. He added a can of pork and beans and a small can of tomato puree, stirring everything together.
Ken observed the creation of this dish with great interest. “It smells good,” he said. “What do you call it?”
“I don’t know. ‘Odds-and-ends hash,’ maybe.”
“Dish it out, man. I’m starved.”
The eclectic mixture was surprisingly satisfying, and they cleaned their plates.
They had set up the tent close beside the truck, using its bulk as a windbreak. As the sun set in a blaze of orange, magenta, and pink, Ken felt himself being possessed by a spirit of utter contentment. He gave in to the feeling and decided that he wouldn’t have chosen to be anywhere else in the world on this evening, or in any other person’s company than Rick’s.
The night air penetrating the tent felt surprisingly damp and chilly, and for once Ken didn’t risk sleeping in the nude. Like Rick, he kept on his sweats. Ken buried himself in his sleeping bag, trying to stay warm. He allowed himself to envy Rick, who was sleeping quite peacefully in his more capacious hi-tech bag, only an arm’s reach away.
Ken was relieved when he woke up the next morning to find that the wind had died down and the chill in the air had dissipated. They were back to T-shirts-and-shorts weather.
They got an early start. Ken was driving when Rick, in his capacity as navigator, noticed a sign advising in both English and Spanish that there would be a military checkpoint just ahead, so vehicles should slow down and be prepared to stop.
“What’s this all about?” Rick asked.
“Oh, strictly routine. I remember this sort of thing from the trip I took years ago. We’ll probably run into five or six of these stops between here and Cabo. Don’t sweat it. The idea is to intercept the bad guys who are involved in drug trafficking and other illegal activities. Once they see we’re nothing but a couple of perfectly harmless, innocent tourists, they’re not going to give us a hassle. They may want to inspect the inside of the cab and our stuff packed in the back, in which case we just step out and let them do it. The quicker we cooperate, the sooner we’ll be on our way.”
“Got it.”
By now they were approaching the actual checkpoint, which was marked by several military transport vehicles parked off the highway. Blocking one lane of the road was an obviously temporary barricade constructed of sandbags, with a few traffic cones and a stop sign in both Spanish and English set in front of them. Ken braked to join the queue of vehicles already lined up and being ushered through the checkpoint one by one.
The checkpoint was manned by young men wearing military uniforms and armed with automatic rifles. Some of them looked barely old enough to be out of high school, but they all looked alert and gave every appearance of being deadly serious about their job.
Ken sat up straighter in the driver’s seat at his first sight of the uniforms and guns.
“Oooh, look at all the pretty young soldier boys. So hot.”
“Keep your voice down,” Rick hissed. “I don’t want to spend the night in a Mexican jail cell.”
“For what? For telling a bunch of dudes they’re attractive? You don’t know these Mexican men the way I do.”
“No, and I don’t want to know them in the same way you probably know them.”
Ken laughed. “Relax. And smile. Stop looking so tense and so damn tight-assed. It makes you look as though you do have something to hide. Unless you would like to be strip-searched?”
“I’ll leave that pleasure to you if it comes to that, which I hope to God it doesn’t.”
When it was their turn to be questioned, two of the soldiers approached, one on either side of the truck.
“Let me do the talking,” Ken suggested.
“Be my guest,” Rick muttered under his breath.
“¿Habla español?” was the first question put to them.
“Very little,” Ken replied, accompanying the admission with his most disarming smile.
He replied to the inevitable inquiries “¿De dónde vienes?” and “¿A dónde va?” succinctly in his slightly halting Spanish.
They were asked to get out of the truck. Without being asked to, Ken went around to the back to unlock the storage bins. Rick walked around to join him.
“We’re going to be searched?” Rick whispered.
“Relax,” Ken replied in the same undertone. “They’re just looking for guns and ammo, or drugs. Which we don’t have on us.” It occurred to Ken that he might not know Rick as well as he thought he did. “Do we?”
“Of course not,” Rick said indignantly. “Do I look like an idiot?”
Ken relaxed. “The jury’s still out on that, pretty boy.”
“Fuck you.”
“With pleasure.”
“Shut up. What if one of these guys hears you and understands English?”
“So what if he does?”
The soldiers conducted a comparatively cursory inspection, looking under the front seats, inside the glove compartment, and opening the two men’s duffel bags to get some idea of the contents. Ken began chatting up a third soldier, who came over and observed his two comrades as they did their search.
The soldiers found Rick’s stash of several bottles of tequila and Ken’s supply of condoms and lubricant. Rick, Ken noticed with a certain malicious pleasure, blushed with embarrassment. But the young military men seemed amused.
“It looks as though the señores know how to have a good time,” one of them commented.
“We try to,” Ken replied.
“Good for you.”
There was no other vehicle approaching the checkpoint at the moment. Ken had the distinct impression that the soldiers were bored. He continued to engage them in conversation, trying out his Spanish. He asked them about the road conditions up ahead, and pulled out the map to show their itinerary. Rick seemed to be having trouble following the conversation, which was an animated one accompanied by smiles, nods, and gestures.
Finally the two travelers got back in the pickup and drove on. The soldiers waved to them as though they were sorry to see them go.
“Well, that was relatively painless,” Ken commented as he pressed down on the accelerator and the truck picked up speed.
“Jesus, you really are gay.”
Ken let out a snort of derisive laughter. “Congratulations. Figured that out all by yourself, did you?”
“Well, it was one thing to hear you say you are. It’s something else to see you in action.”
“You haven’t seen me in action.”
“No? What do you call what went on back there? The way you were schmoozing those dudes?”
“I call it flirting. Harmless flirting.”
“Oh, I see. Coming on to a bunch of macho young straight numbers with guns. Real harmless!”
“They seemed flattered, if anything. It’s not like it could have been the first time they’ve ever dealt with a couple of gay tourists.”
“They thought we were gay?”
“They probably assumed we were. When they saw my rubbers and the booze, they no doubt took it for granted that you were my boyfriend.” Ken grinned at his traveling companion. “They probably figured we get wasted on the tequila every night and then take turns giving it to each other up the ass. Like I said, we’re just a couple of typical gay tourists.”
“Excuse me. Who are you calling a gay tourist?”
“Sorry, macho man. That was a slip of the tongue.”
“Or wishful thinking on your part.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Rick.”
“Oh, really. So what you’re telling me is, if I were to whip out my dick right here and now, you wouldn’t want to go down on it?”
“I’d pull over to the side of the road and park first. Safety first.”
“You are such a slut. On a scale of one to ten, you’re about an eleven.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Rick seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he said, “But, seriously, explain something to me. What’s it like to be gay?”
“What kind of a question is that? It
’s like me asking you what it’s like to be straight.”
“You’ve got a point there.”
“Let’s face it, if you have to ask what it’s like, then obviously you don’t have to worry about whether or not you are.”
“Who said I was worried about it?”
“Nobody. I just thought you might be entertaining doubts about your masculinity.”
“No doubts about my masculinity have ever entered my head, thank you very much.”
“How nice for you. Then I won’t waste my time trying to reassure you.”
“Sarcastic bitch.”
“You’d better lay off that kind of talk. It gets me hot when a guy talks dirty to me and starts to verbally abuse me.”
“Son of a bitch,” Rick muttered.
“There you go again. Case in point. I’m starting to spring a boner just listening to you sweet-talk me like that.”
“Ken, you are bullshitting me, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, why should you care?”
“Exactly. I could care less what gives you a boner and what doesn’t. But seriously. Have you always known you were gay?”
“Always. Ever since I was a young kid. Too young to jerk off yet, or once I did start to jerk off, still too young to make jizz. Even back then, I was turned on by men in this weird sort of presexual way. You know? I was attracted to men’s bodies. I liked to look at pictures of jocks—professional athletes and bodybuilders. If they didn’t have their shirts on, better yet. If they didn’t have their pants on or were totally naked, much better yet. Then I started developing the usual adolescent crushes on real-life guys. Only in my case, there was a definite sexual component in it. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted them to do to me, or with me, but I sure as hell knew I wanted them to do something. Come on, be honest, Rick. Didn’t you go through a phase like that?”
“Sure, maybe. But that’s the point. It was just a passing phase. I grew out of it.”
“Well, I didn’t. It’s as simple as that.”
Baja Honeymoon Page 11