Report from Cabo San Lucas

Portrait of Cabo San Lucas from out in the bay.

Carnival Cruise Lines pays only 1.1% in corporate taxes.

With my white kayak paddling out near the arch, seen by thousands of tourists out in the cruise ships with cameras, I have probably been put into ten thousand photos in the last two days.

I've put together a slide show of paddling out near the tip of Baja.  Here's the link.

Experiment with the controls of the show.  You can get rid of the thumbnails by moving your cursor off screen.  The controls at lover left and lower right control full screen and speed.  Lots of bells and whistles.  You can see captions or turn them off.

Friday, March 25 to Sunday

Tacos

When I first visited Mexico in about 1961, I spent six weeks taking Spanish lessons in Guadalajara. I used to go out and eat from the street vendors. At first there were no problems, but then I got pretty sick several times. So I’ve never dared to try street vendors again, although it’s been a wish. Just like completing the voyage down to the tip of Baja, having a street taco has been on my life list.

Nick, an American expatriate (center), eating at "Tacos al Pastore."

Today, I ran into Al, a Canadian from British Columbia. He was having tacos at a little stand called “Tacos al Pastore.” (Rustic Tacos). It wasn’t exactly on the street, but it had a closet-sized kitchen opening onto the sidewalk—and you had to eat on the sidewalk standing up. Naturally, I was ambivalent, so I asked Al if he recommended it, and he said that definitely, he did.

There were four huge tubs of different kinds of salsa, plus sliced cucumbers, and large jalapeno peppers roasting on the grill.
Another restaurant I visited had a "salsa bar" of 20 different kinds.

There was chopped meat for the tacos, or you could order large hot-dog like sausages. The chopped meat came in three flavors—roast meat, sausage, or “rustic.” The meat was already prepared, but he would sizzle it up in front of you, and warm the tortillas, and serve it up, all in amazingly efficient and fast motions.

The taco chef and his able assistant.

Inside the spacious kitchen of "Tacos al Pastore."

The tacos were served up so hot that there was no chance for any bacteria in the tacos—but the unrefrigerated salsa was another thing.  I read five years ago that most intestinal upset in Mexico was caused by salsa sitting about on tables for ages. But I knew I wasn’t going to leave Baja without a proper taco, so I screwed up my courage, and heaped on the salsa. The next morning, I was still alive.

Perhaps Mexico hasn’t sent a rocket to the moon. But who needs to go to the moon, when you can go out to the neighborhood taco stand, and eat like this? Tacos will put you in orbit.  In Mexican heaven, the clouds will be strewn with garbage, but every cloud will have a taco stand.  In American heaven, they will be handing out free granola bars with rubber gloves.

The advantage of a sidewalk taco stand is that you can talk to the other patrons, since you are all huddled around the stand. One young Mexican was there with his wife. I asked him if he was married, and he said “no,” winking at me. His wife heard this, and made a big fuss, in good fun. He advised me that you could only eat three tacos if you expected to sleep at night. And that they are so good, you have to watch out or you will get fat.

These tacos were stupefying good. In my opinion, there are four signs of a great culture. It’s good food, pampered dogs, good cartoons, and … well… I’m not sure of the fourth. It could be great music, art, or literature.*  Mexican/Hispanic culture scores well on all four.

Signs of high culture: lots of good cartoons and pampered dogs.

... and great works of art, displayed where it counts.

In the US, we get advertising over the urinals.

It’s probably preferable to eat these tacos standing up, because it you were sitting down, you’d probably have to stand up and salute, and sing the Mexican national anthem. Besides, when they are that spicy, you have to stomp your feet.

I know my readers are going to say, “It’s not worth the risk.”

I disagree. This experience can recalibrate your idea of flavor, of cuisine. I’d say, “Go for it!”--even if you have to arrive at the taco stand with an intravenous antibiotic drip—even if you have to arrange a medivac plane waiting for you on the Cabo runway. A safe life is a life without real tacos--a mere shadow of existence.

Paradise

If I stay here another day, I may not come back. Today I was out paddling, and a jet ski passed me, slowing down as it went by. Three blonde bimbos riding on it waved at me (without me waving first). I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t a suicide bomber sent to paradise. The incident certainly improved my attitude about jet skis—at any moment, there are about 20 in the bay here racing around in circles like so many suicidal moths looking for a candle.

After five days here, I’ve got my routine down. I get up, have granola for breakfast, take my gear from yesterday off the clothes line, and head for the beach. There I have to unload it myself and drag it across the sand. I paddle about a mile across the bay to the pinnacles at land’s end, to check how the waves and wind are doing, and pay my respects to the Pacific and to the seals on a rock. This part is really hypnotic—in among the immense pinnacles, the big swells come rolling in—you are up and down, and it’s very exciting in a low-key way. Today, there are maybe 10-15 kts of wind, which speeds up between the pinnacles. Every now and then, a monster swell comes in and crashes against the pinnacles. I paddle around the pinnacles a couple of times, and watch the pelicans and frigate birds circling above them, then head to the snorkeling beach.

Landing at the beach on the bay side is a bit of a challenge, since there are moderate ocean waves curving around the point. I back in. The first time, I was lucky, and I did it perfectly. You let a wave carry you in, then jump out fast at the last moment, before the receding wave drags you back. Another kayaker was there watching--a Mexican guide leading an American couple--he was very impressed. But two other times, I have botched it. The kayak goes sideways to the incoming wave, tips over, and you get dumped in the water. Or else you step out of the still moving kayak, and stumble and fall into the water, as the kayak runs over you.

So I take off my dripping clothes, bail out the kayak, drag it up the beach, and slather on some sun guard. Snorkel and mask in hand, I enter the cool water. I swim out to a small pinnacle in deeper water, checking for a passing water taxis. It’s like crossing a busy street—they have glass bottoms, so they all go by the pinnacle. Then at the pinnacle, I’m in another world. Maybe 50 or more different species of fish—plus sea fans and corals.  I stick close enough to the pinnacle so I'm safe from boats.  The wall of the pinnacle drops into the blue abyss.

I snorkel around a pinnacle like this one, only a little further out.

There seem to be two kinds of fish--those close to the rock, many of which seem to be nibbling at algae on its surface. Then there are the ones out in the open water, hanging out in schools—doing what, I can’t tell—maybe just being in the Buddhist “moment.” There are also huge schools of tiny minnows maybe a quarter of an inch long—so small and transparent you can barely see them.

I swim till I feel tired, then come back into the beach. I have to save my energy, since there’s still a mile’s paddle back. I’m actually a bit chilled as I climb onto the beach. I feel like an astronaut returning from space, with legs not used to the force of gravity, so I stagger out of the waves.

While I warm up and dry off, I stroll around the beach, looking at the people there, the crazy sculpted pinnacles in the cliffs above me, or at the rocks encrusted with huge purple barnacles near the water. Today there’s an old man with a big pot belly, wading around in his underpants. He goes back to the dry sand, where he buries his legs in the sand like a child, patting the sand down with his hands, smoothing it out. Just sitting there, half buried in the sun.

I paddle back to the main beach where my car is parked, looking at the cruise ships in the bay. Today, Sunday, there are three all lined up, with their launches bringing tourists in for an afternoon ashore. Today the beach is very full of Mexicans on their day off, so I try not to make a fool of myself while landing. I mostly succeed, because the waves here are very small. While I’m getting the kayak ready, a Mexican who I met yesterday comes over to talk to me and practice his English.

Back at the parking lot, it’s extremely full, with cars parked every which way, and hardly any space to drive between the rows. I have to wait for some cars to make up their mind which way they will go. Then finally, at 2:00 pm, I’m ready to head for lunch.

Usually, I head back to the trailer, for a sandwich and a long nap, ‘cause I’m really bushed and baked.

But today—I must be getting stronger in my back and my gut—I decide to head into town for tacos. First I try “Tacos al Pastore,” but they are closed. So I go around the corner to a place that’s been recommended: “Gordo Lele’s Tacos and Sandwiches.”

"Al the Canadian" points the way to Gordo Lele's taco joint. 
"The best in town."

Gordo’s is the size of a large bedroom, with about 5 tables. The lime-green walls are covered with Beatles and Elvis posters. (I hear Gordo does a good Elvis impression.) There are eight very greasy fans positioned around the room—only two are running since it’s a mild day of about 80 F, and one is pointed at Gordo, who is finishing his own lunch at one of the tables.

Gordo (word means fat guy) is indeed very short and very fat. He’s wearing a yellow apron and a white hair net. He has two pairs of store bought eyeglasses on—one is apparently for close-up, since he’s reading a paper. Mexican bifocals.

Gordo Lele in his taco joint, surrounded by Beatles photos.  He's said by some to serve the best tacos in Cabo San Lucas.

Shortly after I sit down, another couple gets up to leave—Americans. The man is very fat, and he says: “I love this place,” and walks up to Gordo, and gives him a big and long hug. His wife hugs Gordo, too. Gordo then disappears into the dark kitchen to prepare the two tacos I have ordered—I hear lots of sizzling sounds. He brings me my beer, served unceremoniously in a large Styrofoam cup—but it’s nice and cold.

A bit later, the two tacos, one of roasted meat and the other of chicken, arrive, topped with avocado slices. They don’t look like anything special—but they are astoundingly good. There are two little bowls of salsa—one a deep reddish-purple, with chili seeds in it.  It tastes hot and smoky. The other is a creamy, sourish guacamole. Gordo comes out, puts on his two pairs of reading glasses, and picks up the paper.

My server at Gordo Lele's.

The next event hasn’t been part of my routine, but I wish it were. Heading back to my car, I stopped at a restaurant/bar where I heard music. The sign said: “Birras y Menudo,” which is analogous to “Beer and Snacks.” It was a fairly open and light place, with windows without glass, so I paused at one window to listen.

Inside, the one-man-band was playing the song “Mr. Piano Man” on the keyboard. It’s a sad song about just this kind of place, about a piano man playing worn out songs to worn out people who don’t care. It was as if I had been transported into the song. The man had a weathered face, a short pigtail, a goatee and mustache, and a sort of Aztec-patterned shirt on. Two little girls, maybe his daughters, were sitting in colorful dresses in the corner, drumming time by patting bongo-style on a guitar.

I put a tip in his box, so he asked me if I had a request. I couldn’t think of anything, so I said “Guadalajara.” There were about 5 people in the audience, and everyone laughed, for I had unwittingly thrown out a big challenge, because this is the archetypal mariachi song, played with lots of whoops and trumpet flourishes. He didn’t really know the song, but he tried his best. It turned out one of the patrons was from Guadalajara, so he helped, putting in the whoops at the appropriate moments.

To the patrons inside, I was framed by the window, since I was still standing outside. I had a colorful bandanna around my neck, a floppy sun hat, and my motorcycle cop sunglasses. Someone made a remark that I looked like a “bandito.” So every time the word “bandito” came up in a song, people turned and smiled at me. Next, someone in the audience asked for a microphone, and provided the lyrics for a syrupy, romantic song. He did well, and everyone clapped.

Merchant in downtown Cabo San Lucas.  I've got to have that shirt!

Mishaps in Paradise

My first mishap—I was coming back from shopping at Wal-Mart, and I didn’t see the speed bump. I was on a straight boulevard with no traffic, no stores, and no pedestrian areas. But maybe kids had been racing hot rods here, so there were two humongous speed bumps. You find speed bumps everywhere in Mexico—the uniform enforcement tool.

I was going maybe thirty mph and saw the bump at the last minute—I slammed the brakes, but still couldn’t stop. Everything inside the van rearranged itself. The next thing I knew, a policeman flagged me down. He asked to see my papers, and “why didn’t I stop for the bump, and where was I staying, and did I know it was only a 20 kph zone?

He said: “Tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to take your driver’s license, to make sure you pay the fine. You have four days to pay, and then you can get your license back.”
“How much is the fine?”
“I don’t know, maybe $45 dollars.

I tried to explain that the fine wasn’t necessary—that hitting the speed bump like I did was already all the punishment I needed--and I made a sign, like everything inside was turning upside down.

But the cop, hardly more than a boy and very polite, didn’t buy it. Next I asked him to write down the address where I had to go to get my license back. I said I had only been in town a few days, and didn’t know my way around. This seemed to change things.

He said: “Tell you what I’m going to do. I don’t want to ruin your visit to Cabo. I’m going to give you your license back.”

“You mean no fine?

“That’s right—just a little tip.”

So I gave him a 50 peso note, about 4.5 dollars, really a bargain, and said good night. He didn’t take it in his hand. He had me lay it in his ticket book, and closed the book over it. Never touched it!

 Corruption? No, I got off easy. I’m thankful. I learned my lesson. Corruption? That’s Wall Street. That’s bankers who lay the world’s economy in ruins, then write themselves nice fat bonuses. What’s one policeman taking a 50 peso note, and for a real infraction?

Mishap #2

My second day, I drove to the public beach, parked my car, and went for a long walk and supper. When I returned to get my car, a gate was locked, and my car was locked in. There was no sign notifying me of this rule. I wasn’t too worried, since the car was locked in safely, and it was only a mile to my trailer. The next day, the hotel owner seemed a bit upset--perhaps he should have told me about this possibility. He said I could have had my kayak stolen. In any case, I was thankful that he drove me back to my car. No problems with the car or kayak on top.

Mishap #3

While out paddling near the arch, I saw two people with a kayak on a secluded little beach. They waved at me. I went in as close as I could, but I didn’t want to land, because the waves there looked too big. The guy waded towards me, and made a sign like cutting his throat, meaning I shouldn’t land. I watched them for a while. He signaled me again. I went in as close as I dared, but the surf was too loud—we couldn’t communicate. What I did learn was that he wanted a line.

I didn’t have one, so I paddled out to a water taxi and asked for “Una Ropa.” The guy looked perplexed, and said he didn’t have one, and asked why one was needed. I said I didn’t know, but that this couple was stranded and said they needed “una ropa.” Now, I often “make do” in Spanish by turning an English word into Spanish, and it usually works, because of common Latin roots. Finally, the guy explained to me that “ropa” meant clothes. Whoops. Probably the boatman thought I was telling him someone was stranded without their pants. He wasn’t going to loan me his pants.

Once we got that misunderstanding behind us, he gave me a rope, and I threw it to the stranded couple. The guy tied it to the front of his kayak, put his girlfriend on the kayak high on the sand, and tried to drag her into the water using the rope. With much huffing and puffing, he finally succeeded, and managed to launch before a big wave came in and upset everything. The whole thing was a little amateurish. I paddled up to them, said “hello,” retrieved the rope, and took it back to the water taxi. I told the helpful boatman: “Rescue complete!”

US-Mexican prices compared

• Gas in Mexico is a government monopoly, though the price does vary from place to place. Generally, it’s a little cheaper than in the US. The Mexican politicians use the Petroleum Corporation as a cash cow, using its profits to balance their budgets, without reinvesting sufficiently in new equipment and drilling. So production is dropping fairly rapidly. Mexico is one the US’s biggest sources of oil, so after only a few more years of falling production, both the US and Mexico are going to be in trouble from this. The US isn’t the only country with a dysfunctional Congress.
• In general, prices are about the same as the US. Fruit and beer are cheap. But if you go to Wal-Mart and buy something you can’t get elsewhere in Mexico, it’s going to be expensive. They don’t sell diet soft drinks in most places, so I went to Wal-Mart. I saw a sign for A&W root beer, at about $1.20 US per can. I thought I had misread it, and anyhow, a case would be cheaper, so I bought a case. To my chagrin, the case cost me about $30 US—costs way more than beer.
• A margarita in a good restaurant—$5-$6 US, but it’s a good margarita. 
• For taking the speed bumps too fast: $45 if you get issued a real ticket, or whatever you can negotiate as a tip, and/or the cost for replacement of your shock absorbers.
• An hour’s rental of a jet-ski: $80.
• Per taco if you stand up to eat: about $1.00 US.
• Per night at my “hotel” for RV, with electricity, shower, pool, and cold Jacuzzi, and internet: $15 US per night.  Wisconsin State Parks cost about the same, and you don't get the palm trees or the pool.
• The average internet café for 1 hour of internet: $1.00-$1.25 US.
• A perfect avocado: about $.25 US
• A Hagen Daz single cone in the best shopping mall costs over $6 US. If you get Mexican ice cream on a side street, it costs 1/5 that. But the Hagen Daz is better. 

Impressions of Cabo

• As you walk down the main street at night, despite the luxury, you smell sewage.
• Sitting typing this, I'm hearing a dog fight in the distance.
• It's friendly for retirees.  There's a pharmacy on every corner with discount Viagra.
• The waterfront is clean and architecture is well-done. The point jutting out into the bay is a preserve. 
• They have a harbor rescue craft with three 275 hp outboards on it. If any water taxis venture between the rocky crags at the point when the wind is too high, the rescue boat comes out and slaps their maritime wrist. (They slapped mine=mishap #4. But no arrest--just a harangue in Spanish over their loudspeaker.) They also have an armored speedboat for security, with a machine gun—sort of a PT 109. This looks like a serious boat.
• The bay is very, very busy, with everything from many jet skis, parasail boats, kayaks, glass-bottom water taxis, diving boats, sport fishing boats--and Sunday three big cruise ships with their launches going back and forth. There are two huge racing yachts (says New Zealand on the hull), identical to each other. They sail out in a mock race—apparently you can get a ticket. There is also a big three-masted pirate boat—as it chugs by under motor power, you can hear the tour guide asking the pirates to put on their life preservers. And there are several party boats playing loud music, where everyone gets drunk. When these boats discharge passengers at the dock, you can count on a bunch of people staggering down main street a bit later.
• The Mexicans are friendly and laid back. If you wave or say hello, it’s always returned in kind. 
• There are beggars (usually handicapped or with babies), little children selling gum (as in days of old), and many prostitutes and massage parlors. There are massage tents on the beach (but these I believe are only massage).
• You can always hear a loudspeaker somewhere in the distance—on the beach, one bar offers races and events to crowds of onlookers. There are the loud come-on’s for bars and discos.
• The town is orderly and well-run. Policemen and policewomen are evident, directing traffic, patrolling and handing out tickets. There is also the “Preventative Police” that patrols parking lots and similar areas. Bouncers at the bars wear black t-shirts that say “Security.” Around the harbor, hotels, and fancy restaurants, there are numerous apparently private security people. Police carry side arms, but you don’t see assault rifles in evidence. In the US, even park rangers have belts with so many weapons, pepper spray, billy clubs, handcuffs, and radios, that the women rangers can barely walk. But here, the police just carry a small side arm. I feel safe here, even among the drunks and prostitutes.
• Mexican sanitation, plumbing & toilets have improved greatly since my first trip to Mexico--but just in case, you still put the used paper in a wastebasket.

Cabo and Cancun compared

I've been to Isla Cancun (the big resort) about four times.  The first was before there was a single hotel there.  I'd say that Cabo is a much more interesting place.  Cancun is flat, while Cabo has pinnacles in the water, and mountains behind it.  Cabo has the hurley-burley of a town just back from the beach, while Cancun is sort of sanitized, with the town on the mainland--and most Mexicans can't get easy access to the hotel area on the island.  On Cancun, each hotel is a separate island unto itself, and you have to take a bus into town.  In Cabo, hotels are more integrated into the town.

Cabo has been here as a town for hundreds of years, whereas Cancun was nothing 50 years ago.  Cabo has a great variety of interesting hotel architecture--none of them are high rises.  Cancun also has interesting architecture, but more of them are high rises. 

 A unified North America

Here are some incidents illustrating how integrated North America has become.

• At Taco al Pastore, I’m talking to Nick, an American, and his Mexican friend. Nick is Asian, about 6’ 2” tall, and extremely fit and friendly. He was raised in Chicago, but married a Mexican woman, has been here nine years, and now lives in neighboring San Jose del Cabo, where he runs a restaurant and sells real estate. He doesn’t have much free time, but likes to do outdoor activities.
• At the bar with the Piano Man, one of the patrons asks me in Spanish where I’m from, and I tell him. “Wisconsin,” he says, “That’s where they make all the cheese… and the milk!” He knows where it is.
• At the beach, as I prepare my kayak to drag to my car, I’m talking to a guy who rents the jet skis. He says he spent three years in Minneapolis, working maintenance, and also spent some time in North Carolina. He’s trying to practice his English, which is only so-so. He says he has forgotten a lot. He has two little kids here. He wants to go back to the US, but he also wants to stay here and watch his kids grow up.
• I’ve just parked my car, and I’m locking the door. A Mexican walks by, and sees my license plate. He says, “Weeskonseen!” I respond, “Have you been there?” He says: “Si!”
• On the beach out by the arch, I drag my kayak up next to a two older Anglos with their two grown children. The daughter walks over to look at the kayak, and sees my pump with the Rutabaga logo on it. She says: “Are you… from Madison??” I say that I am, and it turns out both she and her brother worked for Rutabaga. The father, Bill Davis, is a doctor in Madison. They live in Deerfield, WI. So I loan my kayak to Hannah for 15 minutes, while I chat with the rest of them. 
• Also at the beach, I talk to a Mexican kayaking guide. He was trained in a program in Loreto Bay (Baja), then went to the NOLs outdoor school (I presume in America). He worked for a time as a guide for an outfit in British Columbia. Now he’s a guide for a kayak outfit back in Loreto Bay. He speaks excellent English.
• At my hotel, a guy with long blonde hair comes by to talk to the owner, and this is what I overhear: The blond man is a disk jockey. He had worked in Miami, but things are very, very slow there. So he drove with his RV around the US, looking for work, including in Las Vegas. No luck. So he drove all the way down Baja to Cabo San Lucas. He says he’s going to look for work here. He said that he had converted his RV into a traveling gym, presumably to make some money. But that didn’t work out, so he wants to park it at the Hotel here while he converts it back into a regular RV. I have this image of him pulling up to some dusty little Baja town in the central desert, and asking if anyone wants to sign up for his health club.

 In light of this increasing integration, our immigration policy looks more than a little quaint.

Coming soon:  Scenes of Cabo night life.

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*  I'm serious here about these signs of "great culture."  It's true for France, Japan, and as far as I know, for China (but I don't know about Chinese cartoons).  It's also true for the US; while the US hasn't really produced it's own cuisine, it has the good sense to appreciate the other great cuisines, putting one of each (if you count French fries) in every small town in America.