Zipolite Journal: Part 1

Zipolite Journal: Part 2

THE RETURN

After prepping all the previous evening we wake at dawn to complete the job. Sad au-reviors to new loved friends and the dreaded moment begins. I'd had enough of my 40-day beach stay yesterday but not enough now. We wheel down the dusty main road for the last time and head for higher latitudes. We can pretend we are just going shopping as we pass Zip's neighboring shore towns, pretty St. Augustinillo and Mazunte, and head for Pto. Escondido. We do some and there and then push on. Just north lies some beautiful tropical farm and parkland, moist and lush as the road passes coastal lagoons. When it veers inland the hilly semi-desert returns with sporadic Saguaro cacti. The army checkpoints are more frequent northbound and having to start the car with a screwdriver makes me tense. Highway 200 miraculously turns into smooth road as we leave Oaxaca state. This coastal highway hardly lives up to it's name. We have planned to take a 2 hr midday sun break on any given beach but some days that geographically doesn't occur.

We pass on a 4 km beach access in favor of a coastal town that has no beach access. Sorry, Jyah. The road winds inland again and the ultra-prevalent Mexican dogs turn into pigs for hundreds of miles. We descend towards Acapulco in the late afternoon, which is spectacular from it's high vantage points just to the east. Below us is the land of the rich and famous. To the west the shore is lined with sky-scraping hotels for miles with the city climbing the surrounding mountains behind. We venture to get through the multi-million person strong city and briefly get lost in a sewage-stinking suburb and toxic traffic tie-up. A monstrous unmarked tope allows us to leave and enter another lush green, beautiful tropical area. Here are plantations of tall rows of coconut with banana trees growing beneath them. Nighttime is falling and we are still 120 kms from our destination at Zihuatanejo. We have been told it's a cute little place. We try a nearby beach access with no luck and nervously drive through the night. Kilometers pass slowly in Mexico even at high speed on good road and completely exhausted, we reach the massive city, Zihuatanejo, very late. We find a recommended beach area and park nearby. Here tensions and built-up misunderstandings are resolved and allow sleep. We all are homesick for Zipolite, now so many miles back. We rise at dawn and escape this unsightly place. The sun rises as the van finally hiccups for a small massage. Ixtapa looks grand from the distance before we enter a boring slow stretch of dull low woods on appalling road. Sometimes we are down to 20 mph. Anew toll road is being constructed adjacent, thank God.

Soon, mercifully, we are on the new pavement racing toward Lazaro Cardenas, a giant smoke-belching factory heralding it's arrival. We bypass the city and reach Playa Azul where the road parallels the coast as winds through low grassy hills. This is a beautiful region dotted with small unspoiled villages where good surf pounds the empty coves. Near noon we stop at a small fishing town for brunch and a sun-break. We meet a gringo surfer camping at Rio Nexpa, a few miles ahead, reputedly with high surf and two great point-breaks. This is their re-provisioning town. Nexpa was recommended by friends at Zip as a place to stay but we saw no road access and filed it for the future.

Now we climb into several hours of high winding mountain road, very slow and dry, but here and there offering spectacular vistas of coastline from high vantage points. Traffic is non-existent and I realize that most of it has probably opted for the inland toll road through Guadalajara. Towns are also few and far between and the fuel gauge has been low for a long time. Many miles later I can't believe she is still running on empty. 280 miles on one tank! Mentally planning for the worst, we are told gas is 10 minutes ahead where the mountains flatten out. Prayers answered, we roll in and tank up, including the empty spare tank. We now cross a huge flat agricultural plain. Tecoman is it's main centre, a low dull place. We opt for the free highway to Manzanillo, which follows the inside of a huge lagoon with tops of submerged mountains poking through. To the right is lush farmland backed by a nearby range of low mountains.

Surprisingly Manzanillo is an industrial port town. I'm amazed it is touted as a destination resort. Jyah enjoys the many trains and freighters at dock. Next the hotel district aims to please but doesn't. A brief inland jaunt takes us near Barra de Navidad, which looks from a distance to be an inviting place, but our intended destination is Puerto Vallarta, still a hundred miles away, in the now dimming daylight. We press on climbing inland again through a beautiful forest with tall wild coconut palms. Night falls quickly on this empty road and we opt to stay in Chamela. We both blink and miss it. Local cowboys at the next town advise that we choose the next town ahead. It is another tiny place, but there is a dirt road to a resort, which we inquire at. It is almost empty and very expensive. We opt for a small track in the dark and stay in an empty undeveloped subdivision. Its a bit spooky with an abandoned dilapidated multi-storey hotel looming nearby. Carolyn and Jyah venture out to check the beach, which is nice and must be revisited sometime.

Next dawn we awake to our first overcast sky and head for Puerto Vallarta, passing dull scrubby farmland. As the clouds break we climb into beautiful ranchland and still higher, above the haze to pristine evergreen forest at 8000 feet. It is reminiscent of BC's interior. Now we descend again following a tumbling brook and back to jungle. Suddenly a cove appears with exotic villas and hotels following. Puerto Vallarta stretches down the coast into the haze in the distance. This is another area of glitz and riches that changes at the small old-town of Pto. Vallarta. Most of the city fails to please and we escape north past jets and cruise-ships and climb back into the welcoming jungle. Farmland gradually emerges as we pass the village of San Francisco. This place is a highly recommended alternative to the gaudy bustle of Pto. Vallarta. Monteon looks nice too. So many places to visit next trip down! At Las Varas we say goodbye to Hwy 200 and drive past tobacco farms with leaves drying on racks. The flat farmland here stretches out forever to the distant mountains.

Climbing a low range of jungle covered mountains we are rewarded on top with a stunning view of the long bay book-ended by Santa Cruz and San Blas. The first town is quiet and unassuming surrounded by quaint mixed farms and coconut groves. Here the surf is getting lower as we near Mexico's Gulf of California, but the water is still warm. We take our sun break at a beach at what we believe to be San Blas. The place is pretty much deserted and strains of "Nothing Compares To You" mix in my head with fond memories Zipolite. We find the real San Blas nearby and it is a most pleasant place and book marked for a future stay. We rise into the jungle again in search of Hwy 15. At Navarrette our map fails us and we opt mistakenly for a hellish rural side road to Santiago Ixcuintla instead of a good one to Tepic. Here I almost reach nervous collapse. Why is there no traffic on this supposedly main north-south route? Are we driving the poor van into oblivion on a road to nowhere? We inch toward Ixcuintla only to be greeted there with cobblestone streets that would shake the van to pieces at more than 5mph. Now having finally crossed town, I see an angelic vision ahead. Fast moving trucks! My depression evaporates as we merge onto the smooth pavement. There are brief moments of speed before we are entangled in a clot of trucks. We negotiate past the lead offender traveling at only 10 mph, astonished that that such could be allowed on any highway. The road after Rio San Pedro is fast, slicing through flat agri-business farmland where all is neat and crop fields labeled. Just before crossing the Sinaloa State line we arrive behind a line of trucks at another of the endless checkpoints. Nowhere in Mexico can you travel fast for long.

We observe a huge plume of blue smoke emerge from a truck at the gate and are amazed that following truck ahead does the same. This time it blows into the van. Our windows shoot up as we reel and gag. With horror I remember a Zip friend warning of an agricultural station where all vehicles are sprayed inside and out with toxic smoke. He urged that we must use any excuse to avoid this. We are successful, saying that we have no produce to toxify. Never shall I forget to wash Mexico's produce again! Still dizzy and sick we pull off at a viewpoint ahead to be greeted with the stench of decaying flesh and a view of an endless stagnant boggy lagoon. Agriculture fades into returning desert, as does the late afternoon's light. Mazatlan is tonight's destination. We pick up a toll road and speed into the sunset reaching Mazatlan by twilight. A coal-fired generating plant has draped a crimson cloud of smog high over the city. What I had always thought was a resort town is in reality a massive seething smoggy city. We hack our way to the tourist strip and find an RV park nestled between the towering hotels. Inside are rows of gleaming motor homes, the rolling palaces of the almost-campers. There is an overpriced space for our proud little bus and we walk down the street to dine at a sports bar surrounded by glaring televisions and gaudy gringo armchair-athletes. The night air is cold here and extra layers needed. The food is almost acceptable and we retire.

Before dawn we eject ourselves from the impending mayhem and blast north on good toll road. Here and there we see glimpses of ocean as farmland re-emerges on a grand scale. This is tomato country and we laugh as we pass trucks overflow with Roma's. At Los Mochis the land turns arid again and we climb a range of bare rocky mountains from which we observe a mile long line of trucks ahead. Mercifully the troops wave us on after admiring little blond Jyah and his lovely mother who speaks some Spanish. The two have eased us through many such checkpoints. The next one at Sonora state line is no piece of cake. These are Federales who must cow-tow to the whims of fat American bureaucrats in Washington. We park over a trench where one of them taps away under my van. Any serious search would take days and soon we are released. These northern latitudes throw us our first wind, a strong headwind that eventually brews up a dust storm near Navajoa. The van strains toward CD Obregon, a foul industrial place, after which the storms dies out. We pass Guaymas at sunset and follow the long line of diamonds up into the black desert night. Hermosillo comes quickly, looking attractive in the dark, and we embrace the prospect of sleeping in America tonight. Approaching Nogales we pass a sign directing certain foreign vehicles to a mid-freeway office. Believing we are not members of this "Club Sonora" we pass on and reach the main US border crossing. It closed at 10pm and we must go the lesser crossing downtown which is open 24 hrs. Only in Mexico!

At the Mexican immigration office we inquire where to remit our vehicle permit and are, of course, directed 21 kms back to the "Club Sonora" sign, exasperating at 1 am. All goes well until I inquire about an exit stamp for our tourist cards. Two elderly officials who have no time for the likes of me imply my criminality because we neglected to validate them with a 150Peso fee at a bank. No one ever informed we had to do so. Back to the nicer guy in Nogales who graciously offers to accept our 300 Pesos as the banks are closed for 2 days. Caution dictates when we realize they can be mailed in from home. Nice try, though. The US crossing must be low on the priority list in Washington as half the traffic lights and gates are inoperative. As expected we are directed to the side and their sniffer dog is presented with our likely target. He is much more excited at just being outside and the woman must bark orders to keep him on the job. We are freed and relieved to be out of Mexico. The van is rewarded with some inexpensive US gas and patted lovingly on the back. Deserted Nogales AZ is left for the first rest-area and we sink to sleep like stones in water.

A voluntary massage is offered to the van next morning as I check the valves and timing. All OK, Carolyn steers through the desert to Tucson where the van retires it's less-important rear-view mirror, and Casa Grande, where we engage new territory north to Phoenix on Interstate 10. It is an attractive place and Jyah is excited as jets land and take-off almost downtown. Now we veer west 350 miles east of LA. A desert sun break is taken at a rest-area near Plomosa Pass. We watch overweight Americans relieving their trim dogs. That midday sun seems really low. The flat stony desert pans reach out gracefully to meet distant ranges, which refract iridescent purples and blues and they slide by in the thin haze. It is unearthly and serene. Here and there RVs begin to dot the landscape, increasing dramatically as we near Quartzite AZ, self-dubbed the RV capitol of the world. The Colorado River is the California border and the desert suddenly switches to flat fertile farmland with sheep-filled fields and rows of date palms. The agricultural station guard says hi, gives us some maps and wishes us a groovy day.

The mystical desert scenery returns as we climb gradually to 4500 feet at Chiriako Pass where a breathtaking scene is beheld. On the southern horizon lies Salton Sea, to the north the massive San Bernardino range, and ahead the Santa Ana Mountains floating above the gleaming haze. 3000 feet below irrigated fields glint between lines of date palms. We descend into the valley below and behold a rarity. Is that snow on the mountaintops? Carolyn and Jyah refuse to believe it, yet I stubbornly insist. At San Gorgonio Pass we begin to enter the LA basin and behold a magical scene. Hundreds of wind-generators are slowly wheeling in sync in neat rows on the valley floor and also climbing the hillsides. It adds an angelic meditative effect to the reddening sky. Before dark we pass a mountain with an obvious snowcap and we all concede that it is indeed snow. By dark we enter the madness of LA. Millions of cars all seem late for a Saturday night date. Carolyn is a superb navigator and successfully negotiates my way through Pasadena on Hwy 210 thus missing LA's worst. We pick up our trusty friend, Interstate 5, and race to meet the challenge of "The Hump", Tejon Pass. The van groans but does a very respectable job of passing this famous VW van-eating hill. North of the pass she gets a well deserved break as we stop for the night at a blustery and cold rest-area at it's base.

A windy dawn greets us with snow not far above. We gas up and continue, not far, as the accelerator cable snaps. I guess the old girl wanted a longer break! It is raining now and that sheltered gas station across the overpass looks pretty darn good. Carolyn asks permission for us to fix the cable and it is granted, thank God. I had noticed when replacing the engine that the cable looked weak and bought a spare. An hour later we are rolling again, the shiny new cable taut as we buck the showery headwind. The San Juachim valley looks much better northbound, the hills green with sheep grazing to the left, and endless rows of blooming fruit trees to the right. The Sacramento River has flooded her banks. There has been a lot of rain here. Sadly we witness our last palm trees fade to evergreen. The northern Californian scenery is somewhat dreary compared to the always-unexpected mayhem of Mexico. Late afternoon sunrays paint their patchwork through the clouds in the nearing mountainsides as we reach the northern end of the San Juachim valley, where I keep a nervous eye out as a massive black thunderhead builds dead ahead over Redding. A few bolts of lightening and some torrential downpours later we have escaped it and climb into the darkening clouds toward Mt. Shasta. Here the windshield fogs I realize with trepidation that the defroster hoses have been disconnected since this point traveling southbound. 6000 miles without needing defrost! Now it really feels like home.

Near Mt. Shasta it begins to snow and we find another sheltered gas station, tank up and reconnect the defrost hoses. Carolyn wheels us through Siskiyou Pass and down into Oregon. We stop for the night at a rest-area near Roseburg. Morning provides us with a strong dry tailwind that blows us all the way to the Canadian border. At Blaine WA we buy our last tank of reasonably priced US fuel. Canadian gas is even more expensive than Mexican. The Canadian officials send us to the side and we wait, answering more questions here than all other borders, until the lady inspects the van. We are glad to be back in Canada but the van isn't. She retires her starter completely and we ingraciously push her into her native land. A few miles later we arrive at the BC Ferry terminal at Tsawwassen where sad goodbyes and hugs close the last pages of our magnificent voyage.

Zipolite Journal: Part 2

THE RETURN