Photo by -eme
“Don’t stop driving for 8 hours after you cross the border into Mexico. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t stop on empty roads. If police try pull you over just keep driving until you get to the next town. Seriously, don’t trust anyone and you might be safe.” – Americans
Three different Americans said this same thing in the space of a few hours. We’d been cruising through surf shops in Newport and Huntington Beach looking for boards and explaining our adventure plans to anyone who’d listen. We were excited when we touched down in the states and in one afternoon all that was taken away from us. All of a sudden we faced a 50/50 shot at either drug Cartel abduction and beheading, or police corruption and Mexican jail. The dream of empty waves, sunshine and cerveza died – now we were here just to survive.
So we prepared with a reliable mini van that we were promised wouldn’t break down, a machete, an axe, a baseball bat and extra fuel so we wouldn’t have to stop for anything.
With the doors locked and windows up we rolled over the border and into Mexico. American tales of disaster nipping at our heels we gunned it through Tijuana. At a set of traffic lights an old lady approaches to sell us some candy and bracelets. She hobbles along at an incredibly slow pace, her skin dark and wrinkled from a life in the sun. She smiles crooked white offering her meagre wares. We don’t even consider winding down the window.
Abandoned million dollar houses run along both sides of the coastal highway. It’s like the western world has been evicted from this place, but the locals haven’t moved in. No one at all wants to be here. We ask ourselves why we’re here. Then we see the waves break achingly perfect along the coast with no surfer in sight. But following the trusted American advice, we keep on the safe road and avoid what looks like a hell of a lot of fun.
An hour outside Tijuana, in the belly of the loco Baja beast, the engine died. The reliable mini van failed. On the roadside with a full car and 7 boards strapped to the roof, we waited like a cow before slaughter. It was imminent.
A hellish 5 minutes of looking over both shoulders and a car pulls up. A busted looking ute with Mexicans hanging off the back. It was nice knowing you boys and I’m sorry I thought Mexico would be a fun adventure. The Mexican men jumped out and ran over. Our weaponry was white knuckle gripped out of sight. They popped the bonnet and tinkered, signalling for us to try starting the engine. It kicked back to life and they jumped into their ute and drove away. We barely had time to yell muchos gracias before they were gone in a cloud of smoke.
We drove for fifteen minutes before the engine gave way again. We spent the next two days driving and breaking down around this area trying to get the car in working order. Every single person we saw stopped to help us. We were given lifts to mechanics, we were given translators to help us speak with mechanics, we borrowed phones from strangers and when we couldn’t speak the language, they organised everything for us.
The only problem we faced was the car that we had bought in America. The only fear we experienced was that which the Americans had put in us. My conclusion: many Americans are wimps who exaggerate their fears beyond reason. Keep it to yourself next time, America.
By Harry Patchett
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Harry Patchett is currently traveling through Mexico living the dream, catching waves. You can follow his Tumblr or peep his Instagram via @harrypatchett.
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