Adventures in Mexican canned goods: Chilorio

The fun thing about shopping in Mexican supermarkets is seeing the different types of food and, sometimes, trying to figure out what they are and how they might taste. Chilorio? What's that? Some kind of chili con carne, I guessed.

I checked the ingredients. Pork, vegetable protein, mixture of chiles, lard, fruit vinegar, spices, garlic and sea salt. That sounded like it could be good. There was a lot of shelf space devoted to it, so it must be a big seller. What the hell. I got a couple of cans.

Back at the Rolling Steel Tent, I opened the can with trepidation. Ummm, okay, no weird smells. A bit of heat rising from the chilies. And the meat was recognizable as actual meat rather than mush. I took a taste as it heated. Woo! Nice and spicy.

The leftovers

I ate it with some toasted corn tortillas. The chilies had a little bite without being overbearing. I could taste the pork. Not too much salt. Nothing chemical-ish about it. I gave it two thumbs up.

Another way to do it

Not much ground clearance, but a lot of style

Did someone say "plans?"

Sometimes I go to bed with one plan and wake up with a different one. Last night I went to bed trying to come up with some sort of plan, woke up with no plan, then had a plan present itself to me when I got the following email from Lou:

"I had to go to the emergency clinic on Monday. I have a upper respiratory infection, acute rhinitis, and the flu. They have me on four different kinds of meds. Slowly getting better."

Lou hadn't been feeling well when I left for Baja and things had gotten worse. It sucks being sick, and it sucks worse being sick and alone. So even though he didn't ask, I knew I wanted to be there for him—if for no other reason than to put my mind at ease. It's not right that I'm having fun while he's not.

It turns out he hasn't been totally alone. Laura and Scott (who are camped a couple of washes away) have been checking on him and bringing homemade soup. That's good. Thanks, guys.

Sometimes it seems like anything below the border is so far away, and such an ordeal to get there. But aside from taking care of the paperwork, it's just a matter of driving. I was only about 190 miles away. About a half tank of gas. Phoenix is farther from Lou's camp. So I left the campground south of San Felipe at breakfast and rolled up to Lou's trailer a little after lunch. That included creeping through some small towns with low speed limits, speed bumps and tons of stop signs. It included stopping to exchange pesos for dollars. It included getting fish tacos. It included the wait at the border. No big deal. Especially when doing it for a friend.

Dusk on the tidal flats

Wimping out and helping out

There aren’t many things that can make me cry. One of them is washboard roads. So after driving the tooth-rattling mile from Papa Fernandez’s out to Highway 5, I was in no mental or physical state to tackle twenty-five miles of it to the junction with Highway 1.

“Oh, go on and do it,” my inner tough guy said. “Prove you’re bold. Prove you’re a man. You’ll have a better story to tell.”

My outer reality-based self countered, “You’re crazy. Why would I want to intentionally make myself miserable? I don’t buy into your ‘no pain, no gain’ crap. I say, no pain, no pain. But I’m turning south anyway because I want to go to Alfonsina’s.”

Between the turnoffs to Papa Fernandez’s and Alfonsina’s is a military checkpoint. I looked unmanned, but as I approached, four soldiers moseyed from the building to take up their positions. Ok, I thought, let’s see how this goes.

“A donde va?” one of them asked. (Where are you going?)

“Alfonsina’s.”

He waved me on. They moseyed back to the building. And that was it.

About a quarter mile ahead I saw three guys pushing a pickup. I immediately recalled stories I’d been told and had read about Americans being stranded in Baja with a flat, no gas, engine problems or whatever, and locals coming to the rescue, even feeding them and putting them up for the night. I thought now it was my turn.

I pulled around them, stopped and got out. One of the guys looked at me hopefully and gestured, “Rope?”

I gave him a thumbs-up and got out my tow strap. The eye-bolts I’d installed on the Rolling Steel Tent a while back had finally come in handy. We hooked up and I pulled them the rest of the way to Alfonsina’s. Doing my small part for US-Mexico relations.

Alfonsina’s is primarily a hotel, restaurant, store, marina and air strip. They also have a camping area—a row of palapas along the shore of the bay. There was no sign of Alfonsina’s personnel there, so I asked one of the RVers what the deal was there. “It’s mighty expensive. Twenty-five bucks a night. For that kind of money I’d expect full hook-ups, but there’s nothing but the palapas. I complained and they gave me four nights for the price of three, but the two rigs that used to be there left after one night.”

“Thanks for the info,” I said, and left. I had imagined Alfonsina’s would be my cheap paradise by the sea, but it wasn’t cheap, and even if it were, something about the place just seemed off to me. Oh well.

Insane detour, or just seeing more of Baja?

So, back at the highway I had to decide whether to turn south and suffer washboard hell, or turn north and go… where? Back to San Felipe? Give Puertecitos another look? Do the crazy thing and take Highway 3 northwest to Ensenada and then Highway 1 south again—a five-hundred mile detour to avoid twenty-five miles of dirt road? I chose north and told myself I’d figure it out on the way.

Back at the checkpoint, the soldiers moseyed to their stations again, but this time one of them had a bit of signal flag action going. The guy who’d spoken to me before recognized me and waved me through again.

Puertecitos looked just as unappealing as before. I kept going.

Between Puertecitos and San Felipe are a series of campos, which are small villages or vacation home developments, not campgrounds. However, sometimes the signs will also say “camping.” I saw such a sign and made the sudden decision to go check it out.

Two miles down a washboard road later (ergh), I pulled into a place with a restaurant, picnic area, playground and, sure enough, camping spots along the shore. The place looked deserted, but there was an RV in one of the spots. Its occupants filled me in and I decided to stay a couple of nights. The guy in charge came by later to collect my money.

So, sometime tomorrow I need to decide whether to stay here longer or… something. Meanwhile, I’ll rest up for the washboard drive back out to the highway.

Love and money

The Mexican five-hundred peso note serves pretty much like the US twenty. (Today it's equal to $26.) The previous version featured a picture of General Ignacio Zaragoza, who defeated the French at the Battle of Puebla on May 5, 1862, which is now celebrated by gringos drinking way too much Corona.

The current version, though, features everyone's favorite Mexican artist couple: Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.

Given the stormy nature of their marriage, it's probably appropriate that they're on opposite sides of the note, with Diego looking as if he's asking, "What did I do wrong?" and Frida answering, "You know perfectly well," to which Diego retorts, "Oh, like you're Señora Sinless."

Papa Fernandez's

My original plan had been to spend some time at Puertecitos, but I changed my mind when I saw the place. Totally unappealing. So I continued south to Bahia San Luis Gonzaga.

There are two campgrounds there. Since Papa Fernandez's came first, I decided to check it out, maybe stay a couple of nights, and then move to Alfonsina's on the other side of the bay. It was only 100 pesos (about $6.00) a night. Good deal.

The camping area is over the ridge that forms Punto Willard (the shapely leg reaching into the Sea of Cortez). The road there is steep and very gnarly. You'd need to be bold/crazy to try it in an RV or towing anything. But the mighty Rolling Steel Tent got the job done.

There are eight palapas and four outhouses. There's a dune between the first group of palapas and the sea, so I went farther along to the ones with a view of the water. Nice, secluded, quiet.

Low tide

Low worries

Like 50 miles of adequate road

What’s Highway 5 like south of San Felipe? It depends on who’s reporting, how long ago, what they’re driving and which particular stretch they’re taking about.

The first fifteen miles or so are narrower than most Americans are used to. And there are no shoulders. That can be scary if you’re driving/pulling something large. But it’s still wide enough for semis to pass. The pavement is lumpy with pothole patches, and it pitches from side to side, up and down, but it’s far from bone jarring. It just isn’t Interstate smooth. The speed limit is low, anyway, so just get your mellow on and don’t push it.

By the time you reach Valley of the Giants the road is wider, smoother and has something resembling shoulders. But this is where the vados (drainage washes) start. Most are just mild whoop-de-doos, but some can bottom you out and launch you airborne if aren’t paying attention and take them too fast. Some English-speaker has spray painted comments on the road, but they’re a little late to serve as warnings.

The pavement used to end at Puertecitos. From there it was a slow vehicle- and body-destroying crawl through the mountains. But now there’s a brand new highway as far as Bahia San Luis Gonzaga. Piece of cake. Except there places where small rock slides encroach on the road.

The last twenty or so miles to the junction with Highway 1 is still under construction. It’s not a fun drive, but it’s doable. However, I chose not to. More on that later.

On watch

I was staring at the sea. Because that’s what one does in a place like this. A cluster of gulls was having a feeding frenzy on the surface. Pelicans were dive bombing. Yum, sashimi brunch.

Off in my peripheral vision, something dark broke the surface for a second. It was about the size of a pelican, but it was gone. What was it? Had a ray done a bit of flying? That would be cool to see.

Then there it was again, about twenty yards farther along. Black, shiny, rounded but a little pointed. A dorsal fin?

I hurried to get my binoculars. The trouble with binoculars, though, it that you need to know the location of the thing you want to see. I could only guess where the creature would surface next. I scanned the water. Oops, just missed it. Missed it again. Is that a dark shape cruising just below the surface?

Then, ah-ha! A sea lion. Sticking his head up, getting air, looking around, startling a gull, down again. Too bad I didn’t get a photo.

San Felipe: Day 5

Low tide, 7:30-ish AM

El jefe inspects the Rolling Steel Tent

This chihuahua believes he owns the RV park. Perhaps he does.

Trouble in paradise

Last night, someone walked away with my sandals and extension cord. They left half a can of Tecate behind. Not a very good exchange rate.

The sandals were old, but I needed them for the shower. I'd left them out to dry. The extension cord was one of those heavy duty orange type. I was using it to run my battery charger during those times I'm in the shade.

Neither loss is a tragedy, just an inconvenience. And a lesson.

Catch of the day

A shrimper comes around every day selling some of his catch. The shrimp are huge! Almost as large as lobster tails. I bought eight and cooked them up with nothing more than some olive oil and salt. Heaven. I wonder how many days I can do this before getting tired of shrimp. I'll have to find out.

The shrimp boats just offshore

San Felipe: Day 1

Crossing

Consensus opinion on Baja forums is that if you’re going to San Felipe and points south along the Sea of Cortez you should cross the border at Mexicali and jump on Highway 5 right there. But I wasn’t in the mood to deal with a busy port of entry and the crush of a large city.

So I started my grand adventure at Los Algodones. It’s probably the least busy crossing in the region, even with all the snowbirds getting medications, dental work, eyeglasses, shrimp tacos and tequila. I’ve been there dozens of times. It’s familiar and laid back.

Even though I had all my documents in order and at hand, even though I knew I had no contraband, I was still a little nervous as I approached the crossing. Foreign country… different language… different procedures… different cultural assumptions… different possibilities for misunderstanding… I had never driven across before.

I rolled through the Nada que Declarar (Nothing to Declare) lane and, as standard, two border guards directed me to the curb. I parked, grabbed my papers and keys and got out. One of them motioned for me to open the van's back doors. He took a quick look, poked at the end of the mattress and said, “It’s like your house?” 

I motioned like game show model and said, “Mi casa.” He chuckled.

I started to say, “I need…”

He said, “You need a permit? Park in front of that truck, then go in the building with the green sign.” So I did.

There was no line. I placed all my paperwork on the counter and the clerk said, “Just your passport, please.” He fiddled with his computer a bit then handed me a form—the same one I’d filled out before on various flights to Mexico. 

“Twenty-seven dollars, please.” He was happy I had exact change. He stamped my passport, tucked my copy of the tourist form inside and handed it back.

That was it. The Rolling Steel Tent and I were officially in. Bienvenidos a Mexico.