Late February - Early March?
We’d settled into the apartment next door to the house that we used to live in (and by house I mean garage next to the house) for a few days when El Diablo decided to take us out in his lanchita for a view of the harbor. He wanted to see if we’d remember where the boat had been anchored as well as show us around the giant harbor and get a different perspective on La Paz (which translates to The Peaceful Place). So we went over to Casa Quiroz for an early lunch that consisted of simmered chicken breast marinated with Coca-Cola, fresh tortillas, rice, and jalapenos before we loaded the little tin dinghy into the back of his truck and drove the two blocks to the boat ramp.
Pollo’s Fiery Red Truck that is driven by El Diablo which hauled the lanchita to the harbor.
We launched her after purchasing a couple of Caguama’s (literal translation is sea turtle but it actually refers to the big beers, you know, the big one’s?)* to keep us cool in the midday sun. We loaded the gasoline and mounted the 7.6 horsepower engine on the transom and puttered out into the harbor; we’d made it maybe three hundred yards before El Diablo noticed that the engine wasn’t pissing out water which meant that it wasn’t being cooled which also meant that it was about to overheat and conk out on us. So we turned off the engine and Josh and I grabbed the two tiny oars and began to row back to shore to see if we could fix the problem.
Once she touched the beach we hauled her up a bit and set about searching for some wire to clear the blocked water intake; a local fisherman helped us out and we spent a hot ten minutes trying to jam wire up the engine before putting her back to sea. She cranked up on the first try but still wasn’t pissing. So Josh suggests that he and I just row us around the bay for a while. I suggest that he row us around for a bit. But somehow I have to put my caguama down and start rowing into the wind for the next half hour. Great idea. El Diablo sat in back yelling at his while lauding his new two horsepower engines rowing in the front (dos caballos de caballeros). We’d almost made it to the other side of the harbor when we happened upon one of the anchored sailboats with a lone person onboard who saw our predicament and offered help. “Oh no, we’re just out for a leisurely row. Don’t worry about us,” Josh flippantly replied as behind him I motioned the international call of distress.
El Diablo and his pinché fucking motor.
But we did notice that the boat was registered in Molalla, Oregon. Now this is quite a coincidence since our boat was built in Mollala and since it’s a tiny, tiny town in the MOUNTAINS of Oregon that doesn’t see much of the build-a-sailboat-in-the-mountains-and-sail-around-the-world-on-it zeitgeist. Our father spent twelve years building our sailboat in a shed near the log cabin we lived in miles and miles from the nearest neighbor (technically our boat is registered as Trout Creek, Oregon because that is the name of the creek that ran by the shed and the cabin and emptied into the Molalla River twenty feet away but that’s neither here nor there) so if someone else had been building a sailboat or even planning a similar voyage then they probably would have known about each other. So we quickly asked him if he was the owner and what the story was but it turned out that he was just watching the boat for the captain and that he wouldn’t be back until later. We vowed to come back at the appointed time. And then we didn’t so we’ll never know. Kinda disappointing, huh?
You can watch El Diablo trying to commune/catch with his bare hands these pelicans.
We loaded up the lanchita and headed back to Casa Quiroz but not before picking up some Tecate. Once we’d put the dinghy back in the backyard and walked into the house Marisol and Betty couldn’t help but laugh and say, “Manos Frias.” “Cold hands,” which refers to one whom is often seen partaking of the pleasures of a cold beverage of the alcoholic variety thus permanently having frigid hands, or an alcoholic. Not the first time nor the last time we’d hear this refrain. El Diablo then invited us to a men’s gathering that evening at a club for Baja 1000 racers. The girls all laughed and warned us not to go but we couldn’t refuse so we headed back to the apartment for siesta and agreed to meet back at the house around seven.
The night turned cold after sunset and we arrived bundled up for the drive to this ‘club.’ First we stopped off for some beer as is customary. Then we pulled up to what looked like a mechanics garage and walked into the back yard where a bunch of chairs and coolers had been set up across from a tent and tables with a smoldering grill being readied for carne asada (roasted meat). Everyone was slowly trickling in and we were introduced around to the fifteen or so gentlemen that were at hand. Some were government officials including the head of Baja California tourism and others were more directly involved in the races either sponsoring or racing. One guy that we met races against his wife who has her own dune buggy while others raced solo or by motorcycle (probably the most taxing way to go) and everyone was quite excited to hear about our trip by motorcycle down to Tierra del Fuego so we got talked up a bit by the government officials who then introduced us to the editor of the monthly Baja Races newspaper. He was so excited about the trip that he called up his lead reporter and had him come over right away to do an interview with us. We waited until he arrived by partaking in some more beers and then the carne asada was ready so every dug in as the saboya, grilled onions, were passed out and the salsa’s were readied for consumption. Everyone fought over the meat like cavemen until there was none left – some scraps were left for the kids that had attended for some sort of mandatory induction into the world of machismo racing.
Finally the star reporter arrived and we were ready for the interview which was mostly Spanish sprinkled with Spanglish as Joshua and I took turns explaining the impetus, planning, and adventures so far. They took some photos and I told him to feel free to use any of the ones on the website and we wrapped it up. We had a few drinks with the author and he offered to translate NTMD into Spanish for free, we said sure. So the next day I bought the domain noeslosdiarosmotocicleta.com just so that we could be an equal opportunity vicarious traveler site. Of course translating how much I’ve been writing for the blog would be an arduous undertaking especially gratis so nothing has come of it. Yet.
Everyone at the ‘meeting’ proceeded to get ever more drunk until the guitars were broken out and a great big banda singing circle was started. One of the gentlemen was the class clown of sorts, a bit of a loco who had been chatting with Josh for quite a while and things had gotten out of hand. He had a slight dislike of Americans as well as the normal Mexican antipathy to homosexuality which Josh had riled up with constant calling of him as a joto or fag which Josh thought funny. It then became some sort of joke in which Josh sold him my ass for 300 pesos which apparently was a bargain. He then came over to me (having no knowledge of the joke) and started pulling out his wallet and trying to grab me. Obviously I was nonplussed. I started protesting and pushing him away slightly violently which only made him more aggressive. I looked over to Humberto, El Diablo, for help and an explanation which he gave by coming over and protecting me from this crazy man and explaining that he’s a crazy man and to take no notice.
The Mexican Gentlemen’s Baja 1000 Club Meeting(with gringo guests).
The crazy man that was trying to buy me for 300 pesos. 300 pesos!
